


All Eyes On Us

by Green_Destiny



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Porn, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Art, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Camboy Keith (Voltron), Camboy Shiro (Voltron), Cars, Dirty Talk, Domesticity, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Getting Together, Healthy Relationships, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Pining Keith (Voltron), Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rivalry, Sex Positive, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, Size Kink, Social Media, Thirsty Keith, Top Shiro (Voltron), Webcam/Video Chat Sex, Wingwoman Allura, camboy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2019-11-28 21:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18213581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green_Destiny/pseuds/Green_Destiny
Summary: K_Red and BlackLion are camboys for the same website. Unrivaled in their power but rivals to each other, a chance meeting at an official event pulls them inevitably towards each other, as much as Keith would like to resist, gravity is always, always stronger.





	1. All Eyes On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Because s8 was horrendous and utterly destroyed me, I needed to heal so so badly and one of the knee-jerk things I did was to draw and start writing Sheith to provide some food for my sad soul. Allura is alive and Keith and Shiro are a million times happy and in love with each other and nothing will ever change that ♥ etc etc etc.
> 
> I also set myself on fire to them on a near regular basis. So here’s a thirsty thing. Art and writings are by myself. Thank you + Enjoy ♥

 

Meeting and greeting at CamBoyfriend.com’s annual awards event isn’t really part of Keith’s aesthetic — except for the tiny clause in his contract that says he has to attend if he’s receiving an award.

Known somewhat for skipping out on official events like these, the visual impression of Keith’s camboy brand is far less clean cut than what he presents here tonight to a hoard of hungry press pushing to take his photograph. In front of a large media wall of the award night sponsors, he’s wearing discreet all-black — black satin dress shirt, black narrow tie and designer evening suit contouring perfectly to his lean body, clinching him in all the right places. He cups the angular crystal award to his side and with a little lift of his chin and just the right amount of arrogant cant in his hips, the cameramen vie for his picture.

But what it ultimately comes down to is that he’s the most popular face of their website, and they pay him good enough to afford this expensive taste and carefree way of living, so whatever, right? A bit of promo for the hand that feeds him never did hurt his career.

In the dying light of camera flashes, Keith rolls his eyes towards the bar before another interviewer can stop to ask him something ignominious like, “Will you be signing with ‘Candy Guys’, or ‘Innocent Boy Pictures’ in the future?”

Nope — not on his life.

Keith’s used to controlling his own gravity. He has a steady audience well into the thousands on any given session, a hefty follower count on Twitter and Instagram pushing almost 200k each, best-selling premium member videos, and now with CamBoyfriend.com’s ‘Best Boyfriend’ award, he can safely say he’s carved a place for himself in this world, because no-one takes an accolade like this more seriously than Keith if he’s contractually obligated to.

The giant plus of an event like this is that it’s so good for opposition research purposes. While scrupulously avoiding another reporter, Keith can’t help his lone-wolf operative when he’s feeling out the room for other models — his competitors. He didn't hustle to number one on his pretty face alone, a percentage of that were efforts he made to strategise for his market, engaging with fans and cultivating a brand entirely on his own say-so, all within the regulations of the website’s terms and conditions and the state of California law. The other percentage of that is down to him being just _that good_. But sometimes even that isn't enough.

The talent pool is bigger than last year, he thinks, from a scanning headcount, and some of them are networking hard. They're as seriously dressed and manicured to perfection as he is, but they don’t have Allura as a plus-one, and that puts him a considerable ways out in front. She’s styled herself stunningly tonight but she’s only keeping herself together because she swallowed a Valium beforehand, as did he, which makes them immune to the size of the room and the testosterone and cologne stenched miasma that steals a lot of the breathable air.

She also came with exceptional commentary.

“This is _just_ like that time Coran made me try that fireberry and wormwood Cosmopolitan and said it would rain men!” she cheers, squeezing his bicep as she vibrates with excitement like she’s only been let out for the day.

 _“That wasn’t a Cosmopolitan, that was Coranic-Absinthe. Don’t touch the stuff,”_ Keith wants to say, but whatever Coran wants her to think his concoctions are is only ever for scientific purposes, he guesses. “This isn’t your hallucination, Allura. There really is this many men.”

“Good gosh, where do you keep them all, Keith?”

“I...don’t—”

“—Look! He has a tomato sticking out of his pocket!” She points over with a burst of effervescent glee, and if Keith wasn’t as mellow as a cloud right now he would’ve sat this one out.

“That's a ball gag, Allura.”

“How _stupendous_.”

She’s blissful and completely oblivious with it. As it happens, Keith’s attempting to pilot his ship with marginally the same amount of awareness.

Allura sweeps the silvery mass of her hair over her shoulder and giggles as much as she sighs actual physical love hearts that can be seen in a different reality. Keith steers them in a purposeful curve of the club, passing a waiter on the way and taking two champagne flutes off the tray, downing his quickly and handing the other to Allura who blindly accepts. She could’ve accepted the handing of a bomb in the same way with no objections, blow them all into the upper atmosphere to mingle forever with the aurora borealis the same shades as her shimmering dress.

Back on Earth, the call of, “Yo, K_Red! Love your work, man!” catches his ear as he passes by another model (Ryan ‘Kinky’ Kinkade, Keith recognises.) He lifts a polite, acknowledging hand to him and there's a fleeting moment where Ryan reaches out to clasp his hand, tries to thread them with gentle folding fingers, offering easy, open affection, but Keith lets it slip in a whisper of air and carries on through the crowd with Allura. It’s cool, but he doesn't roll like that. That manner is how everyone’s wired in this place — to touch and be touched.

Despite this being a crème de la crème event for a flagship adult website of only the best models, there's nothing really unimaginable about a party full of horny camboys whose default communication is emphatically physical; feeling, stroking, kissing, sharing open sexuality under the heavy gaze of a hired media storm, the only place they can be free to do so without negativity, thanks to a gay-positive, sex-positive agenda. This has been Keith’s world for three years now, and it’s taken him fierce internal battles and maturity to fully embrace it for what it is, and accept who he’s become because of it. But his eyes never shone quite like Allura’s as she appears now, from his own internal standpoint, anyway. Maybe one day the spark will reignite and he’ll see it as a wonderland again.

“I’m so happy you brought me here, Keith!” Allura yells over the loud music as they’re briefly separated through the swell of passing bodies. He only knows where she is from the melodious peal of her laughter as she sways to the music with her drink lofted above her, dancing to her own rhythm, a princess in her own world, while the bass carves right through Keith as though his innards are made for pulverising to the beat of Janelle Monae in intermittent strobes of blinding neon pink.

His mind tumbles along rapidly, feeling a suspension of reality between the deep, throbbing bass that rattles his skeleton, wolf whistles that swift across his eardrums and he feels immolated by the proximity of writhing, too-close bodies — even more so when they’re _on_ him, planted firmly on his waist, and he stiffens at a touch so casual and so unwanted by him.

An asinine drawl croons right into his ear. “Red, baby, you’re unbelievable. Hottest legs on cam, best ass, everything you’ve got is bomb beyond words.”

This guy, James G, a name not worth recalling but Keith accesses from god knows where in his brain, slimes into his already limited personal space and has his arms taped around his hips attempting to dance with him, speaking into his ear like he’s something more to Keith, more than just another average performer, more than just another fuckboy. Rage is already running the possibilities through him, but the caveat of tonight is perfect composure, and so Keith releases calmly, and questionably sincere, “Thanks a lot, man.”

“Hey, Red,” James continues, and Keith feels he’s abusing his generosity at this point, because James isn’t reading him at all, just doesn’t _get it_ to _get off._

Instead, he reels Keith in further, far too close, fingers indenting in his five-thousand dollar suit like he owns a fucking stake in it and brushes the seam at the spine, the words _Get the fuck off me right now_ telegraphs across Keith’s face with a hostility James obviously doesn’t acknowledge in his coked-up, unhinged stupor.

“Let me take you out after this. Anywhere you wanna go, I promise I’ll treat you good.”

 _As if you have my fucking time of day_ , Keith thinks. He’s already seen enough of that shit-eating mug to last him a lifetime and then some. He cuts him a quashing half-glare, then motions into the crowd.

“Can’t. I’m here with her.” He points to the unmistakable silver crown of hair, the only part of her he can see anyway, and extracts himself effortlessly from James’s spider grip. “Bye, James,” he dismisses coolly and winds around to steal Allura and lead them away from the sea of ever tightening shirtless bodies. A photographer’s flash goes off near him and reflects off of Allura’s sequined dress, dazzling them both for a moment, and she laughs loud, letting her body be lead by the crush of the crowd. Keith steers her to where they can find a table or something, some breathing room and maybe an acid bath.

She wrests a box seat to herself as Keith gathers himself next to her, hands smoothing over his suit and award dumped on its side on the table next to him. She slips one foot out of her platform heels and twirls her satin-white painted toes to soothe the ache. “Argh, I can’t believe Romelle put me in these!”

“You’re doing great, Allura,” Keith throws over his shoulder. Thank god at least one of them is. Entangling from a heavy-handed crowd is difficult to task when you can’t ideally punch someone, and Keith’s feeling more and more vindicated by the years he’s spent avoiding these kinds of events. The detachment he can maintain as he watches the crowd is a finely tuned tremor thrumming through him — he wants to be in total control, he wants to be at ease, he wants the whole damn world to take one look at him and know he was designed to be resilient like this, to do things his way, to be beautiful this way.

And as he continues to himself, his trail of thought is cut short by the man with the metal arm who happens right in his line of sight, black shirt sleeves rucked up to his forearms to make it unmistakable why Keith’s pulse suddenly goes ballistic.

 _BlackLion,_ he mouths in silent, alarming acknowledgement to himself.

BlackLion, who stands decorously at the slender podium table a few feet from theirs in mirroring all-black (as is his namesake,) dress shirt tucked into tailored trousers with a knife-edged crease running down the back of his long, long legs, conversing loosely with a small group. _Shit._ Keith realises this is the first time he's seeing him in the flesh, real, unequivocally human at the edge of his oblivion. BlackLion, who is Keith’s filthiest daydream and worst nightmare personified.

It’s unbecoming to stare this long but Keith doesn’t know what’s holding him so mesmerised, the fact that BlackLion is here in the first place, and not the slightest bit as unattractive in the face as Keith desperately hoped he would be, so he could at least have _something_ over him, something to feel smug about when he hate-jerked to everything below the nose. But as it turns out, BlackLion is every bit as damn gorgeous as the rest of him and Keith’s been hate-jerking to a god. Un-fucking-believable.

The instant attraction hits him like a sledgehammer to his grey matter. He hasn't a clue why Black doesn’t show his full face on cam (as if the insanely ripped body and huge, heavy dick wasn't meal enough) but if he did, with everything totalling up to _that man right there_ , Keith’s never felt a mightier threat to his career crown — fuck, his own sanity.

_Please, Lord, at least let him be an airhead or a jackass or something._

With only the tiniest window of time for Keith to parse all of this, he closes his eyes and breathes to the count of three, only to open them to BlackLion’s gaze on him with a lift of an eyebrow, an elegant gesture that successfully beats the air out of Keith’s lungs. The man leaves the conversation to walk over to him, stylish sexual energy manoeuvring into his space and makes a perfect stop right in front of him, and Keith is lost.

“Hey, K_Red. Congratulations on your award.”

And damn, Keith’s never wanted to eat a voice before now. The fine hairs on the back of his neck are prickling with the deep, velvety rolls of Black's consonants in real time. He’s also nearly a head taller as well, Keith finds himself looking up and his throat’s working to swallow so he can get something out and not just stare at his enormous shoulder span, _goddamn_. “Err, thanks, BlackLion.”

The smile almost reaches Shiro's eyes. “Please, call me Shiro.”

_Shiro._

Keith inhales the word.

Shiro initiates a handshake with his metal arm and Keith doesn’t want to be that guy who suddenly goes dumb at seeing a person’s disability up close, but he examines it with a cursory glance before shaking the polished palladium grey and matte black fingers.

“Gloves are off tonight, I see,” Shiro comments.

Gloves, which are as much part of Keith’s skin as it is his camboy identity, is the first thing Shiro picks up on, or lack thereof. In some particularly traitorous move on his behalf, the vividness of his leather-clad hands massaging the globes of his ass, scraping against his nipples, messing with the cum on his abs storms in Keith’s brain and Shiro’s probably watched him do this on cam, like Keith has watched him all the same and picked up on character nuances through it.

“My ‘stylist’ didn't approve.” Keith blankets himself in nonchalance and just as he says it, Allura whips in from behind him, fresh as a daisy.

“Hello, I’m Allura,” she chirps, “It’s an _absolute pleasure_.” She extenders her hand out to Shiro, beaming a smile at five thousand watts and instead of shaking it, Shiro cups it before placing a genteel kiss to her knuckles that neither of them were expecting. The way Allura turns instantly to mush is almost cartoonish.

“Can I buy you both a drink?” Shiro offers.

“I would _love_ a Hawaiian Screwdriver, darling,” she throws out straight away, still blushing, and when Shiro looks back to Keith, he just shrugs.

“I'll have a Corona.”

As Shiro makes his way towards the bar, Keith scans him cutting a swathe through the crowd where there’s a literal parting of bodies like Moses and the bloody ocean to let him through, not like Keith who had to elbow past a few ribs and thwart sexual advances. The man doesn’t even have his junk fondled, not even once — bastard.

“Did that angel of a man just appear out of nowhere and offer to buy me a drink or am I dreaming?”

Keith decides he wants to leave in fifteen minutes. “When he comes back, drink it quick, then we're going.”

“What!?” Allura crumbles as if her world has caved. “Why so soon?”

Keith sighs, not feeling in the mood to explain the multitude of reasons. “I fulfilled my obligation to the website, I got my award. The night doesn't have to end, we can go to another club.”

“But I want to stay at this one. I'm having so much fun!” she beams, and then deflates a second later. “You don't look so fun.”

Keith turns his disgruntled expression back towards the man in question. “That guy’s been playing fucking games with me ever since he started camming. He's only been around for a few months and he draws just as many viewers as I do. He doesn’t even do it regularly and he’s considered a ‘top performer’.”

Across from them at the bar, he watches Shiro effortlessly flag down the bartender's attention and pay him a twenty, then leans slightly while he waits and his back broadens more than anyone else’s there. Keith leers vacantly, then freezes when Allura nudges his shoulder.

“There’s no mistaking that he cuts a striking figure,” Allura appraises, as she would.

She knows it and he knows it. It’s disgusting how beautiful Shiro is.

“He's annoying,” Keith mutters.

Allura blows through his incendiary seething with a playful bump against his side. “I thought the whole point of making it through this industry is knowing you have absolutely confidence in your abilities. Has anyone ever really overthrown your crown?”

 _He almost did_ , Keith doesn't say.

“He's too close for comfort.”

“Keeeeeith,” Allura soothes and turns him back around to face her, “so what if he makes it just as good as you? We're all trying to get by in this world, right? We all have to eat, pay our rents on time, have reasons to get up in the morning. I'm sure he doesn't see _you_ as a rival.”

One show a week, maybe two. That’s the extent of BlackLion’s camming output yet he's constantly edging the number two or number three spot. His social media is more gym selfies than anything else, not that Keith's been obsessing over his Instagram, so help him _god, no_. Keith is camming most nights, even if it's only slotting himself in for twenty minutes here and there if he's particularly busy, his schedule is otherwise regular, and he always makes time for his fans in other countries with awkward time zones. Shiro’s meteoric climb into the ‘top performers’ ranking in a fraction of the time with a quarter of the effort is Keith's bitter pill, and Keith won't lie that he isn’t petty about Shiro stealing a percentage of his audience when they happen to be performing at the same time. He swears that’s been Shiro’s game plan all along.

His back’s still turned when Shiro arrives with their drinks and continues the nonchalance when Shiro hands him his beer.

“Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long.”

“Not at all! Thanks!” Allura replies for both of them and lifts her glass to clink it against Shiro’s bottle and then Keith’s lackluster grip. “Cheers everyone!”

The genuine sheen of brightness emanating from her couldn’t mask the rugged feeling inside Keith. He takes the first measured swig of his beer quietly, staring non-committedly at the sticky table in desperate need of a wipe.

“I don’t want to be too forward, but may I call you K?” Shiro opens the conversation to ask, a tiny little smile and bright eyes lighting up on his face and Keith hates it that Shiro doesn't overstep the boundaries of privacy regarding performers real names. It's too respectful. Too charming.

“Sure,” he says.

“That's a great suit by the way. You wear it well.”

Keith looks down and fingers the lapel of his suit jacket, there’s something unerring in Shiro’s observation that makes him preen inside. “If I can't wear Tom Ford to a gay award ceremony, where can I wear it?”

That same moment, Allura blasts up with enthusiasm. “Can I just say, your hair is _fabulous._ Who did you have it done by?”

Keith realises, belated, that Valium has entirely the wrong effect on her.

A little taken aback by the interjection, Shiro runs a hand through his hair that’s a contrasting white forelock against short cropped black with the sickest fade Keith's ever seen. Ugh.

“Seong-Jin Kang at Ashton & Lake. Same barber I’ve been going to for years.”

Allura swoons and Keith feels he has to clarify. “Allura’s really a hairdresser.”

“A hair _stylist_ , actually, Keith,” she corrects for him, and Keith immediately shoots alarmed eyes at her, jaw clenched so hard his molars could shatter. Just like with all of Keith’s collective secrets coming to light in the most inopportune moments, his real name should’ve stayed between them tonight.

Realising her faux pas, Allura waves her hands in panic and cups them over his mouth, dithering, “Oops! Slip of the tongue,” and then silently mouthing _”Sorry,”_ to Keith with pleading hands. Not even her musical laughter can smooth this one over but Keith handles it like he’s handled most things this evening — he’s a warehouse full of explosives without a match.

“‘Keith’, huh.”

He’s ‘Keith’ everywhere now, even in Shiro’s filthy smirk. He’s caught up in the cascade of electricity needling down his spine like that very first moment of eye contact. He allows a long second to compose himself, knowing he has to smooth this over somehow and not have his thoughts drift. “Please don’t...spread that around,” he tells Shiro, wry, and it turns from electrifying to rain-cold.

“Spread what around?” Shiro feigns ignorance, raising the bottle to his lips and winking at him just before taking a drink.

Keith’s shoulders droop with the knowledge he’s going to be made to suffer from now on because of this. The universe plus Shiro have some ungodly plans for him, for sure.

“I gotta say, I never thought I’d get to meet the prince in person,” Shiro says conversationally, feeling the neck of the bottle between his flesh fingers when he puts it down.

The flirtatious sweep of his eyes over Keith are a minor detail, every single hair that stands on his arms is from that subtle slant of Shiro’s mouth when he bites his lip — it’s recognition, a degree of admiration, a genuine ‘meet your hero’ air, and although it’s casual, and Keith likes to think he’s good at what he does, he’s still holding up to their rivalry like it’s the Magna Carta.

“And I thought you’d get wiped out fast.” Keith focuses on all of the times Shiro’s rank was upended whenever he dropped off the radar to make himself feel better.

Shiro just laughs. “Cute. I’m always willing to take advice from my betters.”

Keith scoffs derisively at that. “You don’t need any advice from me.”

Having shrunk back from the conversation, Allura suddenly bubbles up like champagne. “OK! I’m going to go powder my nose. Back in a tick!”

Keith’s about to tell her, _“Don’t,”_ with the blatant widening of his eyes but she glides her hand to rest a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “Play nice,” she mutes, only to him, too full of confidence that he might actually sit and talk about the weather with his nemesis. She takes her drink and Keith can only watch her go in simmering betrayal.

“She sounds like a sweet girl, your date.”

“Yeah, she is.” Keith agrees, ninety-nine percent of the time. There are a thousand good girls out there but none of them are good like Allura, kind and hard working, have a zest for life Keith wishes would rub off on him at his low points. She’s a mutation of the better part of humanity that still makes him believe that magic exists. “So where’s your date, huh?” he volleys straight back. Now that he’s been left alone with Shiro, something in his curiosity wants to rake him for information.

“Somewhere in the world,” Shiro says, offhand. He fingers the edge of the bottle’s label and Keith notes that Shiro’s drinking the same thing as him. “I didn’t ask anyone,” Shiro then says with a wistful chuckle. “I was genuinely avoiding the thought of coming, but then I realised I wasn’t doing anything tonight, so I took a dive.”

Keith’s looking just beyond him, out onto the dance floor where it spills out into harlequin colours against glistening, semi-naked bodies and wonders if he would’ve taken the same dive into this sickening, seductive world if he had the option to just stay at home. “You could’ve cammed. Everyone else is here. You would’ve made bank tonight.”

The frankness stills Shiro and takes a pause to consider. “Yeah. Maybe.” Then the corner of his eyebrow quirks. “That sounded like advice.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t think about it,” Keith returns. With his knowledge of the industry three years deep, Keith would tell him that for nothing. There was a time when Keith would’ve capitalised on this mass-exodus and made a killing every night from then on. But he’s sure that Shiro does things half the time out of spite and not because he actually wants to make a boatload of cash.

Shiro indulges him with a smirk. “I was thinking more about that Saturday 9 PM slot, actually.”

The back of Keith’s neck bristles. Saturday 9 PM is _his_ primetime, has been for a long time, and Shiro’s always fucking doing this. “You wanna think that one again,” Keith tells him, a smile razor-thin.

The hard few seconds that Keith’s looking at him, just looking, narrowing his stare, Shiro responds amused, infuriatingly serene. “Do I now?”

He watches that sensual mouth and everything it points to is that this man is a menace, and despite Keith’s bristling, he’s fully immersing himself in the game they’re playing, because as furious as Shiro makes him, there are worse things in the world than having a mutual rivalry with someone he would like to strangle while at the same time having that cock strip him raw. God, what a fucking confliction. He makes a show of tutting in disapproval, but mostly it’s to his goddamn self. “Poaching is uncool, man.”

Shiro’s largely unmoved. “You can’t poach an open market, surely. 9 PM is a very convenient time slot for me.”

 _This motherfucker,_ he swears to god.

“And besides,” Shiro continues, smirk broadening, “if I don’t cam myself, I’ll only be watching you.”

Keith’s heartbeat spikes but says nothing for a moment. It’s markedly objectifying, and familiar. They’re two cam models who watch each other but only one of them is openly admitting to it. Keith doesn’t have to be nice and say he’s flattered. It’s almost as much as how he doesn’t want to admit to wanting his knees thrown over those huge shoulders. He takes a drink of his beer in the vacant, sexually charged space of ghost feelings and phantom metallic touches down his neck as Shiro skims a black finger around the rim of the bottle as he holds it; an innuendo in every implicit way.

Shiro bears a hint of white teeth. “Does that bother you?”

The heavy beat harmonics of the dance floor are one with the clanging and clamouring of Keith’s heart against his ribcage despite his expression showing the barest minimum. “Not at all. Watch me all you want.” _Get addicted to me all you want._

Keith’s neutral, without any particular inflection of interest. But deep down, bone deep, soul deep, he’s more than interested. More than he cares to admit. And then Shiro laughs and it’s like a pulse jump-starting a dead area inside of him that was all moth-eaten and desolate.

“You own the website. You know that, don’t you?” Shiro tells him, matter of factly.

Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Maybe he doesn’t care, so long as he can have everything he wants and never has to churn in the mud ever again. “That doesn’t mean anything.” As BlackLion has proved, nearly usurping him in little under nine months. There’s no guarantee of place and position, or who people will be turned onto next.

“It means something.” Shiro nods to the award, and in the same breath says, “You’re amazing, Keith,” lilted with awe, and the last thing Keith needs right now is the cotton candy soft Shiro makes him go for a hot second.

“Please. I don’t want to hear that from you of all people.” And why? Because Keith rewrote part of himself as a direct response to Shiro, he changed his formula and he never wants to admit that someone made him overcompensate for an area he thought he lacked by just how much magnetic draw they had, by how _good_ they looked on screen, how much they could screw with Keith’s gravity and knock him out of orbit, and how indirectly it was affecting his life. There’s not a single feeling of triumph to be this thirsty to one-up someone.

It makes him feel totally out of control.

“No?” Shiro says, coolly. “From an objective viewer, then.”

“There’s nothing objective about you, BlackLion, Shiro. You’re fucking infuriating.” It’s stupid, Keith thinks as an afterthought. He’s sure he sounds annoyed and vicious, when really, he’s just turned on.

“You reach ten-thousand coins the minute you put up the meter, just lying on the bed, waiting,” Shiro says. “That’s some serious power.”

The easiest five hundred bucks Keith ever makes in a day, just for existing. Somehow, to have that acknowledged by Shiro, is intoxicating. “I don't get up for anything less.”

“So amazing.” Shiro drinks to it, never taking his eyes off him even when his head tips back slightly.

Keith’s warehouse is about to blow up for entirely self-inflicted reasons. He has to temper it, but something inside him tells him to get bruised, wholeheartedly. “What about you? Just give ’em half a minute and they flock to you. Give ’em half a minute and my viewer count goes down by the hundreds because BlackLion and his monster cock are ready to host a private party.” And how much does Keith want to keep turning that one over in his mouth until it tastes better?

Shiro opens his arms wide, making a showful shrug like he’s had all this said to him before, and schooled in being modest. “Don’t blame me. They watch whoever they want. The choice is theirs.”

It is. Keith is the unreasonable one here, having his will tested. “You’re guilty as fuck for poaching. You’re just an opportunist muscling in.” Literally.

Shiro folds his arms up and leans them on the table, biceps visibly bulging beneath the thin fabric of his shirt sleeve. “I’m not, but if you’re mad about that, I always tip you.”

God. That.

“That’s another thing. Don’t tip me, I don’t want to be tipped by you.” Rightfully, Shiro tips him, sometimes upwards of five-thousand coins. It’s not even website etiquette to tip a fellow model, so Keith never does, nor can he stop someone from tipping him when it’s not a bannable offense (and completely counterproductive). Instead he takes his ravaging resentment out by getting off to BlackLion without offering him a dime, being greedy and taking taking taking from Shiro fills his soul but the dirty money being slid up his thighs every time he opens his legs on cam, opens them for Shiro’s viewing pleasure comes at a psychological cost.

“I give with utmost respect.”

God, Keith doesn’t know how else to tell him that his sanity is crucial to his well-being. Letting Shiro — BlackLion — lead him down this thorny path will only end up doing them both in in the end, and Keith can’t stand to go down like that, can’t stand to fall at that lush, deep sound beating him into submission, how it makes him shiver, makes him want to disarm his embattled thoughts, and that smirk...it drives him over-the-edge _mad_. He can’t take it. “I don’t care.”

He doesn't want to care anymore.

“Clearly.” Shiro finishes the last of his beer and places the bottle squarely on the table like a full-stop.

The well worn edges of the conversation seems to have peeled away at this point. It cools somewhere in the midst of Keith having a crisis of self over his libido or whether he should march into the ladies and drag Allura out by force and just _go_. It’s absolutely there, Keith’s want to leave, but for whatever possesses him, his feet stay firmly planted and instead bathes in the adrenaline running a course over him from head to toe, utterly compromising his reasons for leaving. It’s breaking his composure to stay gnarly and shoot back glib little remarks while still remaining publically respectable.

Shiro runs his thumb over his bottom lip and turns a glance elsewhere, taking out his phone and thumbing the screen a few times and re-pocketing it. Anyone looking at this scene would guess that he’s disheartened, doesn’t appreciate K_Red’s miscreant charm, and they'd be right. Except Keith could've chewed Shiro out like he did to James frickin’ G, but even in his presence, Keith’s so irrationally drawn that anything Shiro could say would make him feel so unspeakably _drenched_ , worse than any addiction. He feels betrayed by his own psyche at this point to be hung up on someone who makes his blood want to run in retrograde. Oblivion is only so deep.

Shiro flicks a tongue against the inside of his cheek then tuts to himself, admitting with an ailing shrug, “You can crush a man’s integrity, that’s for sure. Damn, but if I could do it like you, pulling that many tips eating watermelon in nothing but cut-off gloves and high tops, I’d quit my job yesterday.”

Part of him wants nothing more than to continue on into that abyss, but the inquisitive part of him wants to stay deadbolt on the last part of that sentence. He gives a meaningful look, too curious not to ask. “What do you do?”

“I’m an aviation mechanic,” Shiro answers, after a little hesitation. “I fix jets for a living. It’s more of a freelance thing, really.”

Keith’s jaw goes momentarily slack. That was...not in the least what he was expecting.

Shiro renews his grin. “Surprised, huh?”

An understatement. “Y—Yeah...a bit.”

Something’s wrong here, Keith thinks. Shiro’s a mechanic, repairs jet engines for a living and he does _porn?_ What the _hell_ is going on?

“It’s not exactly something I make known in these circles.” He gestures to his surroundings and shrugs with a loose flick of his metal hand.

Keith’s still digesting, still trying to wrap his mind around it. “I would’ve pegged you at _anything_ else before that. Hell, I would’ve even had you as a traffic cop before that.” His face is a mirror of Shiro’s own, an unexpectant smile lighting up over a mutual interest he’d never bet his life on that they’d share, and god if Keith’s not in pandemonium right now over his feelings.

“Defying expectations helps me live longer,” Shiro says, clenching his metal fist.

Keith himself lengthens across the table, unconsciously leaning into the conversation. He only realises he’s doing it when Shiro does the same but doesn't bother tapering back. “So what kind of stuff do you fix up? Any Starfire-23’s?”

“God, I wish. But sadly they have their own mechanised reconstruction docks somewhere off the mainland, and all the mechanics are robots, so. But us regular humans deal with the rest of the military class fighters, some smaller aircrafts here and there. I’ve worked on a few F-55 Lightning III’s, F-22A Raptors, some Puma fueling drones. It's not exactly classified information. There's always some kind of war happening that we’re the instigators of or involved in, and some of us have to fix this shit.”

Keith’s just...well he's trying to remember to blink, for one, and not look completely stupefied that Shiro is actually skilled and intelligent, and Keith think’s the man had absolutely no intention to seduce him with that. He brushes a lock of hair behind his ear and tries to tamp down on all the butterflies, the heady mix of powerful, contrasting feelings fluttering in his stomach, giving too much flight for such small creatures. “That’s sick. I could only dream of being a pilot. But you put anything in front of me on the road and I can drive it.”

“So you’re a motorhead too, huh. What’s your ride?”

He can’t help his glow whenever he thinks about Red. “I got a Yamaha ZXI 2024 model in my garage. Plasma diesel, four cylinder, slickest red you've ever seen.”

Shiro’s enthusiasm rockets. “No way! Those builds have the V0-Tron injection tech right?”

“Yeah.” Shit, he even knows that bit of spec. He’s the real deal, and Keith’s bloods rushing, humming with joy.

“Y’know, the guy that invented those engines made the prototype using the components from a piece of comet that broke up over our atmosphere. The ore wasn’t even on the periodic table. It was an unknown element, something brand new.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. It had a glowing blue matter, something called ‘Quintessence’ I think it was,” Keith points out.

Shiro nods. “Now _that's_ classified. Probably a good thing they refined the model to what you have now. It was insanely, ridiculously powerful. But now its main use is for powering starships, and one one-thousandth of that for your bike, probably.”

“Oh, she's plenty powerful. I took to modifying her a bit, added a more resilient coolant core, higher power output, better miles to the gallon, a few other tweaks here and there.”

Air whistles out of Shiro's lips. “Incredible. I bet she’s really something.”

“Yeah, she's something alright.” A tremulous warm shiver gathers that Keith wants to wrap his whole body in. “Allura's cool but, I get to take the redhead out every day.”

“I’d love to see her one day,” Shiro says, then checks himself after a beat of realisation. “The bike, I mean. Although Allura seems cool.”

Keith chuckles but doesn’t answer, just smiles — it says, _Maybe. Definitely._

It’s only a throwaway remark but it's already doing so much to start a tide in him, pulling him in against his own will, perpetually fighting against a flow and just drowning, _perpetually_. It’s where all of his overwhelming hostilities drip from him, all go up in a surf’s haze. He’s clueless how this happened so fast.

“‘K’. ‘Red’. I see now,” Shiro hums, dark eyes glinting magma when the orange strobe light hits them just right, picks up the welt of scarred skin slashed across his nose, a mysterious mar on his handsome face.

“You know all of my secrets,” Keith smirks.

“—Hey, you.”

The little jingle of Allura's greeting either saves or totals Keith, he's not sure which, but she's standing there in her coat and her belongings gathered.

“Ready to go?” she asks, and his eyes immediately shift across the table, lingering, feeling his stomach twist and fold in on itself seeing that expectant look Shiro’s giving him and then remembering what he said to Allura some thirty minutes ago when the only way out of this was the quiet way.

“Uhh…” He wishes he could backtrack somehow, considers buying another round of drinks just so she can acquiesce and stay but it’d be more awkward to explain his sudden change of heart with eye movements and hidden hand gestures when Allura’s Valium brain isn’t here for subtlety. He casts his look down, eyes unable to meet Shiro’s and says regretfully, “I...gotta go.” Whatever air descended on his decision, he wants to fight it.

“Oh,” Shiro releases with a feathered sigh leaving a nameless emotion hanging intrusively in the empty space between them.

“It was wonderful to have met you, Shiro,” Allura reaches forward to take Shiro’s hand, covering for Keith’s delayed reaction, and he shakes it this time, adding, “Same here,” smile faint and nothing like how it was a minute ago.

All lights around them stand saturated and green and throws them momentarily into silhouettes, it makes it impossible to read Shiro as Keith takes his hand to shake it. “Good to see you, Shiro,” he says, an honesty not entirely ingenuine, and his clasp on the metal hand feels warm like skin and sinew and bone, pausing in a caress a fraction of a second more than he should.

“Yeah...you too.”

They grow wide as both of their hands separate and he turns to Allura who grabs the award and together they make their way to leave. He decides if he’s going to suffocate in his own decision he can at least learn from it. He can go and bury himself in alcohol in another bar.

“—Hey…Keith?”

He only makes a few steps before that blessed voice stops him dead, rescuing him out of a tailspin and coaxes him back around. Shiro strides forward, temping Keith to engage with him again and bring him crashing back down into a doomed orbit.

“Do you…” Shiro opens his mouth to say and stalls, and by now Keith’s heart is going to melt right down into his lower organs if he doesn't get it out. “Do you wanna exchange numbers? Maybe I could take you out onto the airstrip one day.”

The “Yes” dangles tantalisingly on the tip of Keith’s tongue and there’s no law governing it not to fall, but it’s blocked by a tongue that’s suddenly grown too big for his mouth.

“ _What are you waiting for? — Give him your phone!_ ” Allura whispers hastily to him and encouragingly bats him on the elbow repeatedly until he starts working again and fishes his phone from his inner pocket.

“Yeah...yeah, sure.” He unlocks it and gives it to Shiro to type in his number, then sends a missed call straight to Shiro’s phone. “You’ve got mine now.”

“Thanks,” Shiro beams, and it’s that easy, apparently. “I guess I’ll call you some time.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, heart knocking around excitedly behind his ribs. “See you around, Shiro.”


	2. Slow Damage

Keith wakes up the next morning to fresh hell.

More accurately, it’s well into the afternoon, god knows how many hours after he rolled in and slept under the blue moon heaven, blissfully wasted, and now the blaring sun is killing his retinas. His arms flail over his face in a haphazard fumble, hopelessly uncoordinated, and curls for some minutes in a fetal position trying to undo the cuff button that's gotten caught in his bedhead.

Somehow he’d had the good sense to take off his suit jacket and discard it on top of the dresser so he didn’t crush it under his weight as he slept face down into his pillow in a pool of saliva, incongruous, internal organs misaligned, and his brain is nowhere to be seen.

And in the midst of all of his grief, he can’t help but feel there’s a gap in his recollection — he’s pretty sure he and Allura left the CamBoyfriend party at around midnight, left another bar at one, Allura called the cab which took them ‘somewhere’, and the hours thereafter are unaccounted for, none of which bodes well.

He groans out, less than glamorous. His joints pop and it feels like he’s swallowed a cactus horizontally that he’ll never be rid of, but these are miniscule on the comparative scale to the over-sensitive twinge and tingle in his nerves, that scorched at sub-zero burn that’s sending signals awry — where the _fuck_ was he last night?

He pats all over for his phone and pulls it out of his pocket but fails to achieve anything more with his uncoordinated fingers. He’s so hopeless that he has to use voice command to get his phone to call Allura. It works, just about, and she picks up on the fifth ring, shouting over the blare of hair-dryers in the background.

“Keith, darling! I’m in the middle of a client right now! What’s the matter—”

“—Where were we last night?” He doesn’t know how she can sound so chipper when he’s having a goddamn catastrophe over here.

There’s a pause and then a sudden dip in volume, a rustling of voices, and he wonders if he should repeat himself or just give up.

But then she speaks. “Look — I can’t talk now. Come to the salon later if you want, unless you want everyone to hear about your night over loud-speaker!”

He hangs up on the cackle of her laughter and tosses his phone away to growl his frustration into his pillow with both hands clenched. Not the finest time to be having a meltdown so soon after regaining consciousness.

Trying to remember for himself is masochism if he keeps insisting on digging through a black box, he’s gonna come across all kinds of weird shit on purpose. But it’s mostly dark, strobing with greens and ultraviolets, the taste of synthetic beer, a titanium handshake and a smile to sail a thousand star-fleets—

—God.

BlackLion.

Fuck. _Shiro._ He met Shiro last night.

He doesn’t get up and point a fork at his brain for nothing. The proof is blinding him as he manages to thumb open his phone’s lock screen and sees Shiro’s name at the top of his recently dialed contacts, just below Allura’s name. He stares blearily at it for long seconds and hesitates to do anything else until his phone blinks black.

There’s a jackal laughing at him somewhere in the back of his mind that’s thrilled he broke one of his cardinal rules to never give his phone number out to another performer. All Shiro had to do was ask and Keith gave. He’d consider this out and out madness, expect for that part where Shiro fixes jets for a living, could take a Lightning III engine apart and put it back together again. Huh.

The jackal in the back carries on laughing. 

✦ ✦ ✦

Soaking for half an hour under the rain simulated shower is a blessing, and his coffee’s there waiting for him, already percolated into his mug like the rainbow Keith took his whole life to find. As balance returns on his first caffeinated hit, so does a measure of clarity, and the frigid, top-to-toe cold stampeding his anxiety back towards his phone to check if he drunk-messaged Shiro at any point last night—

Pure momentary panic and then a sigh drains all the stress from him when he sees no outgoing messages to ‘Shiro’. “Oh, thank god.” At least he wasn’t the full quota of stupid last night.

As he swipes through the mass of messages, it's capped off with a request from Rampant Magazine for an interview and photoshoot, general Camboyfriend.com staff hassle, fan emails and one, surprisingly, from his mom that lights a smile when he reads it. 

 

> Have fun at the awards party tonight. Make sure to call a safe cab. I’m proud of you little starlight Xx.  
>  03:11

 

It got to him too late going by the timestamp, but he figured she'd be a little off due to her time zone. (Where would she be now, Casablanca? Madrid?) He puts his phone away and wipes a hand down his face, finding everything distressing and reassuring at the same time and the amalgam is not about to unify any time soon. The more he stays here, the more discontent he feels, so he leaves breakfast to Hunk and grabs his keys, backpack, and helmet to get himself out.

He takes the elevator fifteen floors down to the apartment basement where he keeps Red in a locked garage. The shutters reel up and he sees her like the ruby she is, shining, glossy harlot lips, an affectionate stroke up her body gives him chills, and when he seats himself on her leather and turns on the ignition, the hum of her between his legs is the tonic he swears adds years to his life. She erupts with a rev and the shutters of the garage rattle around their hinges from the sheer noise she makes when he steers her out of the parking lot like a thunderous bullet.

Downtown, Hunk’s diner is on the south facing Palm Parade which happens to be cordoned off by hard-hatted workmen diverting him to take a detour around the shopping district and Hawaiian quarter. Not the scenic route he was looking for but he's at least sobering with the journey and the delicious barbecued smells wafting through his visor.

After parking up on a deserted outlining street, Hunk’s place is a ghost town when he walks in.

“—Oh! And look who shows up to rub it in my face!”

Keith doesn’t know what he’s done for the bore of Lance’s jab, but he flips him off anyway and turns the next second to Hunk who’s rounding the service counter and squeezing the air out of his lungs.

“Keith! Thank God! You’re like my sixth customer today!”

“What the hell happened around here?” he muffles into Hunk’s shoulder where his lips are being smooshed in a too-tight hug.

“A disaster!” Hunk pushes him back and claps both hands on his leather-clad shoulders with an audible _whap_. “All the workers told me was that they had a emergency gas pipe problem and they’re rerouting traffic to the other side of _town!_ It’s killing business, man!”

“Well that explains why it’s dead as Lance’s life in here,” he directs to Lance seated at the nearest table, eyebrows all knotted and scowling like he’s chewing a wasp.

“Oh piss off, Keith. Go haunt a dumpster or something.”

“He’s upset about Allura again,” Hunk tells him as he rounds back around the cook station and starts wiping down the counter.

“Now there’s a fuckin’ surprise,” Keith mutters and seats himself opposite Lance, watching him seethe into his shake that may as well be concentrated Haterade and nothing else.

“So how was it,” Lance starts, bitter, “taking Allura to your...razzle dazzle cock party or I don’t even know _what_ to call it party?”

“It was an award night, and we had a blast. We were so smashed by the end, I couldn’t tell you what happened afterwards.” Because he literally can't, but that doesn't stop him from throwing a lighter onto Lance’s gasoline and watching him go up like a Satanic pyre.

“Keith, buddy, shoot your order,” Hunk calls to him over the sizzle of grease hitting the grill.

“Uhh...just give me two lots of breakfast, lunch and dinner, whatever’s good, and I can eat tomorrow as well. That should give you five more customers.”

“You got it! Man, you’re a lifesaver. Hey, wanna try my new creation? It’s a sliced steak and poblano chilli, pomegranate and orange salsa wrap. It’s the stars, man, totally chef’s recommendation.”

Keith’s imagination of it brushes the inside his mind and he already wants to be eating it. “Yeah, go for it.”

“You're a dick for making her want to go in the first place,” Lance slingshots back, not done with the salt or murdering his ice cubes with his straw.

“I didn’t ‘make’ her do anything. You’re forgetting that Allura’s a grown-ass person like the rest of us, who can make decisions for herself. And _she_ decided to come, _for herself_.” No matter what powers of reasoning Keith uses, Lance doesn’t catch a whiff. “Dude, I’m the last person you should be mad at. Grow some balls and go talk to her, she’s not gonna kill you on sight.”

“Yeah, chill, Lance. As if Keith would make moves on her,” Hunk chimes in.

“Siding with Keith now, huh? Some friend you are, Hunk.”

“I’m not siding with anyone, you’re _both_ my friends.”

“Keep stirring him, Hunk, maybe he'll curdle and we can throw him out,” Keith snorts. It’s so black and white that Keith shouldn’t have to answer to Lance every time he hangs out with Allura.

“I swear, I was born cursed. I was born on an island that got taken over by a flood, then moved to a state that got hit by meteors, the girl I like wishes I didn’t exist, and now I have to look at Keith’s face — I mean, what is this?” Lance bemoans.

“Then we’re all cursed. We all came from that state.” Keith lets it sail over him, lounging back like butter wouldn't melt on account of Lance’s kicked puppy pretense. It’s been this way since they were thirteen, if Lance hasn’t grown some sense in eleven years then he may as well continue living as an amoeba.

“Yeah, Lance. And Allura doesn’t wish you didn’t exist, she just hasn't had time to accept your feelings yet.”

Bless Hunk, trying as he might to reason with Lance is a net loss.

“Yeah? Well if she doesn't have time then why does she spend so much time with _Keith_?”

Just as Keith’s annoyance was starting to wane, it rises again. “Hunk, I’m gonna tip you sixty if you can cook up in five minutes.”

“Woah, sure thing!” The patter of Hunk’s utensils quicken and he cranes to look around the steam at Lance to get him to actually do his job. “ _If I had an extra pair of hands I might get it done!_ ”

Lance tuts and sucks a last gulp through his straw, and just as he’s about to get up, Keith stops him with a dead serious look. “I’m watching you. If you sabotage my food, I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, screw off.” Lance scrapes the legs of the chair petulantly and curls up like a sine wave more than stands like a normal human being.

Just over five minutes and one dispassionate cook later, Keith’s meals are bagged and waiting for him on the counter.

“Err…let’s just call it fifty,” Hunk tallies in some kind of absurd level of mate’s rates that'll tank his business.

“Dude, are you serious? I’m _paying_ you, I’m not freeloading even if we are friends.” Keith takes a wad of notes out from his wallet and eyeballs the amount before giving up on the math and sliding the whole thing across the counter. “Here — everything that’s leftover is the tip.”

Hunk counts a hundred and seventy dollars. “Keith! This is way too mu—”

“—Shut up, Hunk!” Lance backhands him on the shoulder. “Let him cough up. This stupid guy’s got more money than God, he can pay.”

Keith scoffs as he goes to put his wallet away, opening it a few seconds later to hand Hunk another ten just to make Lance’s face stiffen up like angry granite, and because he can.

“Argh. Thanks, Keith. You're the best.”

Hunk puts all the money in the cash register and Keith scoops up the bags and his bike helmet and throws the little sardonic smirk Lance’s way. “Anytime, big guy.” Just before heading out, he calls over his shoulder with his hip on the weighted door, “Lance! Man up. Go see Allura after work.”

Lance bellows with a fist. “Just get outta here!”

 

* * *

 

A ten minute convoluted detour later and he’s situated amongst porcelain white orchid bowls and the crystal filigree feminacy of Allura’s salon, on the receiving end of a misplaced sense of pity from Romelle. She’d sidled up to him as soon as he walked through the door and lead him wordlessly to the waiting area’s loveseat where he currently waits for Allura’s dye job to finish paying up at the reception desk. Romelle squirreled herself in the tiny kitchen and comes out with a tray of peach tea and dainty little fairy cakes and Keith immediately starts to feel like this was more coercion.

He doesn’t know what this is to be honest. His brain’s fuzzed on painkillers-for-breakfast and nothing is sufficiently masking how his own shadow has up and left him for a better, more well put-together man.

Still, Romelle’s dimples dent her face as she sweeps up cut hairs and can’t stop sneaking glances at him. She looks about ready to burst with all kinds of things to say, which means Allura's filled her in to some degree about last night and it’s about to get spectacularly awkward for him. To placate her, he takes a cherry-blossom mini masterpiece from the tray and demolishes the whole thing in two bites.

With her last customer done, Allura flips the ‘Out to Lunch’ sign on the door and drags a hairdressing chair towards him, slipping her feet out of her jewel encrusted sliders. “You seriously can’t remember where we were last night?”

Keith just shrugs at her, mystified.

Before continuing, she ties her hair into a makeshift bun and stakes it with a pen like a precursor to a loaded story. Keith braces himself for...something.

“Well, I assume you mean after the awards party. We went to The Qube, then to Altea, do you not remember?”

It doesn't register at first. She says it so casually that Keith's heart doesn’t punch to escape from his chest out of triggered reflex to the word ‘Altea’. He zones out looking at the pile of outdated ladies mags fanning the table, ‘20 Ways to Leave Him Speechless’ a rhetoric he keeps spinning over and over in his head until the penny drops like an atom bomb.

They got absolutely shitfaced at Coran’s hell-in-the-ground bar last night. Oh _God._

He holds his head in his hands and dissolves into them. It make perfect sense now why there’s a gaping hole in his memory; there was self-preservation at play, a long lost survival instinct to sequester memories his brain would never dig up. His blood moves like syrup in his veins. “H—How much did I drink?” Because that’s always the next question.

Allura’s not even subtle when she taps her index finger against her cheek and makes an exaggerated show of trying to remember. “Hmm...well we both had quite a lot.”

“ _Fuck_ …” he breathes out, elongating the word in exasperation.

“You had that tri-coloured one — ‘Murder on the Oriande Express’ I think it was called. And Quantum Applebliss — I seem to remember you liked that one, made you quite cheerful, talkative,” she snorts laugher.

“God…” The names alone makes him want to wither and die. This is horrible.

Romelle giggles behind her and the two share a moment that’s a telepathic communication between little gossip parasites that’ve happily attached themselves onto their brains and now Keith wants to commit ritual suicide.

“H—How can you even remember all of this?” Keith questions grimly.

Allura's face is a blank sheet. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not...you don’t seem…” he gestures in a roundabout way with his hands.

“Hungover?”

Keith clicks and points in way of a “Yes”.

“I don’t quite know. I don’t think I’ve ever been hungover. What _is_ a hangover anyway? Have you ever been hungover, Romelle?”

“I don’t think I have either! Does it make you forget things?” Romelle hangs up the broom and pulls up next to her, pouring a cup of tea and delivering it straight into Keith’s hands.

They’re treating it like some alien virus that they’re excited about contracting, and in that moment it dawns on Keith why Coran makes Allura try _everything_ — he’s a complete genius in fact, that ginger Kiwi, that ridiculous handlebar moustache. He’s found a human testing lab in Allura that he can use with no inebriated or moral implications. “We should never have gone there. Never again. Coran should have his liquor license revoked.”

“Keith, what _are_ you talking about? You were the one who wanted to go there! You were the one who made me share a taxi with another dirty drunk shit so we could go to that bar! I wanted to commit murder in that cab because of you, Keith!”

“You should've,” Keith laughs out of sheer disparagement to himself.

“But then what would the clients think of me if they knew I battered men?”

She tempers back with a meditative sigh and Keith sips his pink filigree teacup that’s bastardising against his studded leather appearance.

“So, has the reason for us going to Coran’s bar called you yet?”

Keith almost chokes on his tea. “W—What?...Who?”

“ _Who_ ,” Allura snorts to Romelle. “Shiro, of course!”

The name sounds utterly offensive now that he hears it in broad daylight and Keith's not hot enough to make a good defence. “ _No._ Why would he?”

“You give someone your number with the intention of calling them.”

“Well he hasn’t, so...let’s just forget that he or any of this ever happened.” Heaven forbid he inflates Shiro’s ego by texting him within the first twenty-hour hours or even makes the first call.

“Oh, sweetie, you’ve changed your tune. Last night you said you wanted to forget about him, but you wouldn't stop talking about him.”

“ _No,_ ” Romelle illuminates with feigned surprise, as if they haven’t already gossiped at length about this in their tiny kitchen before the first client walked in.

“Oh, fuck no, Allura,” Keith sharply echos, but Allura's on a crusade — she's the one with the crystal clear recollection and using it as a weapon.

She shines, smiling cute as anything. “You were soooo smitten, ‘It’s not fair, Allura. That man’s an outright lie but he smelt so good.’ I think my heart stopped when you told me you wanted him to squeeze you between his thighs.”

“Kyaaa!!” Romelle throws her arms up and stamps her feet with a fangirl shriek while Keith wishes the world would do a full tilt on its axis and throw him off.

“We...are _not_ having this conversation—”

“—Oh! Oh! And then you made a pillow with your arms on the bar like this,” she imitates, cradling her head with her arms in mid-air, “and said you wanted to rest on Shiro’s tits like this. It was dreadfully cute.” Allura sighs with both hands on her blushing cheeks and Romelle’s bent over _screaming_ into her knees and they're both the textbook definition of ‘Fujoshi’. Fuck. It was a mistake coming here.

“I’m outta here.” Keith clatters the teacup down onto the tray and picks up his bike helmet, rising on the cascade of musical laughter.

“Sorry, Keith! We were only pulling your leg.” Allura tries to stop him but he can barely hear her on his way out.

“—Please don’t go!”

“—Shiro’s really cute, you should get to know him!”

“—We love you!”

 

* * *

 

Back at his apartment, he has a coconut brownie for his stomach in one hand and a Red Bull for his headache in the other and he walks about dragging an anchor by his feet knowing his enormous bodyfail is owed to Coran’s illegal cocktail concoctions and his own poor choices. He accepts the cruel mood it’s left him in in the coup d’état his liver wants to do to the rest of his organs as revenge.

It's five already, a few minutes past the hour and he remembers he needs to make himself ready for his scheduled camshow at half six, pre-organised by the website's rota. He probably already has a million emails and social media messages to respond to but he’s leaning more towards a power nap that’ll magically give him a facelift.

He goes to check his cam setup in the other bedroom and tidies the throws and cushions on the leather couch, makes sure he has enough lube in the bottle, wet-wipes and all the things he needs to clean up. It has to be an easy session today for his delicate nature, all this hangover shit is taking a shot to his libido and he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to perform, but he has to. He only has to do this fixed slot once a week, he can force out one orgasm to please execs.

With a languid drop, he lays himself down on the couch and takes his phone out to thumb past the new stack of notifications piled on-screen. His Twitter and Instagram are mad with activity, and there’s a group message from Romelle and Allura with apology hearts aplenty (nice try with the puppy videos, they can’t play his weakness against him that easily) and the curve ball in all of this undeniable shitstorm is that Shiro’s started following him on Instagram. (Can the universe just stop?)

He literally _cannot_ go further than Shiro’s display picture without feeling paralysed like he was this morning when a lot less of him worked. The below the chin shot has Shiro’s metal hand splayed on his black tank top that’s stretched across his torso like a second skin, neckline glowing and a flush to his skin. Keith’s head falls sideways and goes offline for a moment.

Something glistens, flickers in him and spreads all over, something marvellously new and intimidating that he’d been struggling to disguise all last night but now it’s tearing him from a different angle, in this case, with all the more volatile information as he scans through Shiro’s latest pictures, grudgingly impressed by all his feats of strength and ‘perfect at all angles’ poses, as if that obscenely sculpted body could get any more honed to perfection.

“God, he’s so…” Keith mouths to himself, heart quickening. There’s a shoulder to hip ratio that shouldn’t fucking exist in the physiological way that it does, but in Shiro it’s so obscenely defined that even Fibonacci’s running from the monster he’s created.

Keith lets out a sigh for what’s probably the seventh time already. It’s all he can do every time he lets the video auto-repeat on Shiro doing a set of pull ups that pronounces the muscles of his entire upper body, and Keith’s just staring, lust brimming at Shiro's grunts and his steel hard biceps lifting his glistening body up and down like a machine. Keith’s not even going to try and kid himself that he’s not utterly attracted to Shiro on a physical level, to then be made so explicitly aware of it as he palms the hardness in his lounge pants and works himself through more half naked Insta shots is a verge he’s marching himself towards, poised at the apex of his annihilation, lining up for self-preservation to be an afterthought. This isn’t how he foresaw himself to go.

He’s crestfallen when he comes; there’s no other way to describe the cold, hard reality cancelling out the post-orgasm high in his veins. It was easier when he thought he hated Shiro, he could justify a whole lot of internal screaming then. And he doesn’t know what to tell himself, other than his thirst for Shiro vs any gym equipment is the pinnacle of unquenchable, but this — all the intimate emotions, unreasonable flights of butterfly panic he receives from a stupid social media notification, there’s literally a line that was crossed last night and Keith doesn’t know if he can go back, if he wants to go back to being that guy who resented someone so...so...

Cute.

And smart.

They had a conversation, a _really_ good conversation, that turned him on mentally as much as it did physically, and he was sparkling in the rarity that a person like Shiro could have that much influence over the entire gamut of his emotions. And like a paperclip that slides around a stack of intellectual manuscript, he files it away and shuts the heavy vault door and makes himself forget about it, for now at least. He has a job to do first. 

 ✦ ✦ ✦

 A power nap it wasn’t, but a warm, unravelling shower that makes him feel born again. Changed into a nicer pair of lounge pants and a sleeveless black hoodie with red accents, he readies himself in the mirror, fixes his hair with a touch of styling wax that makes all of his locks crisp and neatly formed, the ends touch his collarbone and flick under his ears and altogether frame his face in a look Keith digs. Afterall, his hair’s just as important to him as the fingerless leather gloves he wriggles into, the last piece that could only ever complete K_Red's signature look.

Tons of viewers have already gathered in the lobby of the chatroom, waiting on every second for his stream to start. In the couple of minutes he has left to deem himself ready, he quickly organises a playlist of tunes to have humming in the background. When he's comfortably seated and ready, the timer counts down to zero and he’s officially live for thousands of his watchers.

It’s the first time he’s logged in since the awards party and his chat window is immediately inundated with emojis and messages of congratulations. The server croaks for a second and then renders a billion hearts, kisses and rainbows onto his screen that barrel down in an unreadable cascade. 

 

> [ **EdMaximus** : Hello Baby 😍❤ ]  
>  [ **Lex373** : OYE PAPI!!! 😘😘😘 ]  
>  [ **guest_128972** : Hola Bebeeeeeee 🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈 ]  
>  [ **onlyyours_** : 💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕💖💗💋❤️️💕 ]  
>  [ **KJason** : CONGRATS RED!!!! 😍😍😘😘❤️️❤️️❤️️❤️️ ]  
>  [ **maccc** : My Hero!!! My Love!!! 💯💯👑👑🌈🌈 ]  
>  [ **djjiinnn** : 😍🌈🌈🌈💋💋💋💕💕😍🌈🌈🌈💋💋💋💕💕 ]  
>  [ **guest_397410** : Hi sweetheart 😙💘🌈 ]  
>  [ **mysticxxx** : CONGRATULATIONS FOR YOUR TOP BOYFRIEND 👑 I ❤️️ YOU!!! ]  
>  [ **Jrizky** : 💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜❤💙💚💛💜 ]

 

“Aww, I love you all too. Thank you so much.” He kisses two fingers and dabs them to the screen and hearts erupt in an endless scroll that’s gone too fast before he can appreciate it.

And then the tips start coming in. Little florets of sound twinkle to let him know that ten coins have been deposited into his virtual moneybox, to be converted later into real cash — thirty coins, and then another ten — twenty — twenty — twenty. 

 

> [ 💰 **TIP : YvesL tipped you 20 coins!** ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : YvesL tipped you 20 coins!** ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : YvesL tipped you 20 coins!** ]  
>  [ **ripjim** : I knew you would win!! 😉👌 ]  
>  [ **RealEdgy** : Because youre the best 🏆💞 ]  
>  [ **guest_335801** : So proud of you hun 😉👌 ]

 

He thanks each person individually for their tip, having fast learned early on that engaging with graciousness is paramount to forging bonds with his viewers before sex even comes into it, though, the ever moving deluge makes it hard to keep track. 

 

> [ **delor44** : 💖 Yummyyyyy ]  
>  [ **daddy1122334** : Sooooo handsome ❤️️ ❤️️ ❤️️ !!! ]  
>  [ **i_n_k_7** : Baby so sexy 😍 ]  
>  [ **BlackJack20** : Makin me sweat already honey 💜💦💦 ]  
>  [ **YvesL** : You're so perfect, please do a private show with me ]

 

He’s jaded by it all, of course. It's hard not to be when he’s had every single physicality stroked by some word or another by a name on a screen. They’re so earnest with their love and affection of him, wanting him to know so ardently that they love him, that they’d give everything to have him. That feeling burns supernova for a time, feels good on an empty heart so willing to take the shape of anything that fills it. 

 

> [ **chrisO** : what id do to have you in private baby ]  
>  [ **redhoneyx3** : You look so cute today ❤️️❤️️❤️️❤️️❤️️ ]  
>  [ **guest_130357** : Love to suck you off ]  
>  [ **cisco1alveres** : i love you sweet sweet boy 💖😘 ]  
>  [ **captainboner** : Your 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥]

 

So he keeps going back to it like a drug that’s formed a nuclear bond with his soul. 

 

> [ **lordzeus** : looking extra tasty today hun 🖤🖤 ]  
>  [ **xx_leo** : You are absolutely gorgeous Red! 😍😍😍 ]  
>  [ **taeyeonkk** : Unnfffff❤️️❤️️ ]  
>  [ **x__girl** : my looooooove 💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘 ]  
>  [ **Jinhxha** : Mmmm I love your hair <3 ]

 

That’d destroy him if he takes it apart. 

 

> [ **guest_185393** : Cant wait to see you get naked ]  
>  [ **k_redlovesme** : 💖💋💕💗💘 i love u so much sweet boy xxxxx ]  
>  [ **serenamama** : I wish my guy was like you. ]  
>  [ **21scotty** : wanna kiss you on your lips 💋💋 ]  
>  [ **muscleJock99** : You make me wanna take time off work to watch you 😤 ]

 

So he embraces it, inept to shut that part of himself down.

“You’re all so sweet, you’re making me blush,” he answers with a pasted-on smile. Despite how wretched he still feels, he lets the vapid adulation fill in his cracks. He runs a hand through his hair and repositions himself on the couch and tries to hook onto a comment so he can get a dialogue going. 

 

> [ **cockydilation** : Please tell us about the awards party!!!!!!!! ]  
>  [ **smooth_john** : Yeah!! How did it go??? ]  
>  [ **jessrawr32** : hero of my heart 😘😘😘 ]

 

“The awards party was good, I had a lot of fun and met...err...I met lots of great people.” —God, he almost dropped the ‘Shiro’ bomb right there if he didn’t filter his brain before he spoke. Too much of an obvious check and he would’ve been probed endlessly by his viewers, but it seems to have floated over them. They’re always so excruciatingly perceptive as well as being chaotic. He needs to be more careful. 

 

> [ **Harveybb547** : You deserve all awards huni 💕💖💗💕💖💗 ]  
>  [ **California__grls** : K_RED MY EVERYTHING 💋💋 ]  
>  [ **ashy1234** : are u ok baby? U look tired still. ]

 

“Yeah, I came in pretty late last night, I’m still recovering a bit.” 

 

> [ **dan99ias** : PLEASE REST!!! ]  
>  [ **big0gym0gay** : so beautiful...😍😍😍 i’ll never stop watching you ]  
>  [ **LexLuvsxx** : dont push yourself sweetie... ]  
>  [ **kisskissbangyou** : get some sleep baby 💕😴 ]

 

“Oh, I’m okay, don’t worry. I just wish I had a bathtub right now so I could soak, but I only have a shower in my apartment. I would’ve done a whole show in the bathtub for you,” he laughs. 

 

> [ **hellsmel** : 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍!!! ]  
>  [ **Harveybb547** : Come and use mine baby ]  
>  [ **Luckyf5** : Take my entire house hun. You can have everything ]  
>  [ **MMARicky** : not complaining if i get to watch you shower 😜😘 ]

 

“That’s really sweet but I don’t want to use up all your hot water. It wouldn’t be right.” 

 

> [ **lazyflirt0305** : Its all yours- come to 278 Timbercrest ave. 49022 ]  
>  [ **ClarkyKent** : 711 Southside CA 90017 ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : Snakeye tipped you 20 coins!** ]  
>  [ **MMARicky** : 2025 Lake Road NH 03101 ]  
>  [ **starsha** : 83 Richland Avenue TX 77063 ]

 

“Oh my g—don’t write down your addresses! That’s your private information! It’s dangerous to give that out. You could get into trouble, and so could I.”

Sounds jingle out of his laptop as more coins are thrown into the pot but it’s impossible for him to thank any tippers when rows of home addresses are breaching the websites rules about personal privacy. Shit like this can get him suspended. He can tolerate the hysteria but Jesus Christ can his fans be idiotic sometimes.

“I’m gonna have to wipe this chat board now, I could really get into trouble.”

He selects to ‘delete’ and the screen stills for a second before it wipes all written messages and returns to an empty chat window that’s only empty for about point-two of a second. 

 

> [ **UltraHDBoy** : Ban those dumbasses red!🤬 ]  
>  [ **guest_50814** : idiots... ]  
>  [ **jeanbsq098** : how could you all be so stupid?? ]  
>  [ **Mr_Valentine** : If Red gets in trouble Im gona personally come to all your houses and fuck u up ]

 

“Let’s start again shall we?” Figures he may as well stave off any more disasters by taking his clothes off. He begins with his hoodie, revealing the red tank top he has underneath, and someone throws a hundred coins into the pot just like that. 

 

> [ 💰 **TIP : Njika tipped you 100 coins!** ]  
>  [ **CBrown** : Red will always be your color❤️️ ]  
>  [ **s39jn** : Woo!! Take it all off baby 😍😍💞💞]  
>  [ **Evan__** : Daaaaaaaamn 👌👌💦💦💦 ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : MisterStud tipped you 1000 coins!** ]  
>  [ **MisterStud** : Love you so much Red ❤]

 

“You wanna have a private party with me, guys and girls? I wanna thank you all for helping me become Top Boyfriend. Your support means so much to me. I’m gonna give all of yo—wow, thank you, MisterStud, a thousand coins, you’re so generous. I love you, too.” Gosh, he’s already made over five thousand coins and he hasn’t even started the camshow proper yet.

“I’m gonna put up the timer. Everyone who tips me in that time gets access for my private party.”

He adds a fifteen minute timer on the screen and like the snapping of his fingers, the tips roll in immediately, vying for a seat at K_Red’s main event. He gets up to the glitch of overlapping jingles and paces out of shot for a moment to grab what he needs, switches his phone to silent, and returns when there’s just shy of five minutes left on the counter, and three hundred and seventy-nine people have already tipped to join him for his show.

“I can’t wait to start,” he says, swiping his palms up his clothed thighs and running them up to fist in his tank top, exposing his tight, cobbled abs and obliques he’s been focusing his workouts on lately. He shows them off, running the flat of his gloved palm over his abdomen and it sends the chat into a frenzy. 

 

> [ 💰 **TIP : AbrahamFox tipped you 20 coins!** ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : Redstone tipped you 50 coins!** ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : sausage_perv tipped you 20 coins!** ]  
>  [ **ferrariprince** : Im dying to see your dick baby 🍆💦 ]  
>  [ **tierno_amante** : Las cosas que te haría si tuviera mi mano ahí 😍❤ ]  
>  [ **sipmeslow** : 💘💯💯My dream boy...so hottttt ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : sipmeslow tipped you 150 coins!** ]  
>  [ **hottyhot_x** : fffuuuuuccckkkkk 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜 ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : joerowdy tipped you 30 coins!** ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP :hottyhot_x tipped you 20 coins!** ]

 

“Two minutes, people. You don't wanna miss this.” He pulls a flexing arm up and kisses his bicep, mouthing at it like the lips of another person and slowly lowers his lounge pants to expose the line of his cock that’s already half hard, for all those viewers who we’re having doubts parting with their coins. The total currently stands at some 22,120 coins — over a thousand dollars already, holy fuck.

After a last minute wave of tips go into the pot, the chat window changes, and K_Red's private camshow officially starts. They're hungry for him to strip down to his skin immediately but there’s an art to creating anticipation, and Keith likes to flirt with his audience with both knees planted on the leather couch and teasing down his lounge pants bit by bit, the jut of his slim hips and line of his adonis belt making everyone stupid. 

 

> [ **blueeye567** : Uffff break my pussy xx ]  
>  [ **spicysean** : fuck your abs look good 🔥🔥🔥 ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : Juan777 tipped you 150 coins!** ]  
>  [ **eatmy__** : Step on me K ❤️️❤️️❤️️❤️️❤️️❤️️❤️️ ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : mknze tipped you 50 coins!** ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : rascal97 tipped you 30 coins!** ]  
>  [ **_xxxdan** : Wanna suck you all day baby💋💋 ]

 

It’s the ultimate performer power to wring the hearts of thousands just by showing them the impression of his hard dick through the fabric of his pants, and the more he teases the more they tip him.

The pants do come off though, he’s not a monster, he gives as good as he gets, swipes two gloved hands down the curve of his ass and turns his back to the camera to show his rounded, pert glutes. “You like this?” He bends ever so slightly so the sweet pink of his taint becomes visible to hundreds. 

 

> [ **shinL** : Im so hard for you rn ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : Ray_Amelio_ tipped you 100 coins!** ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : 69sixtynine tipped you 250 coins!** ]  
>  [ **LeonC** : 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯 ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : BabeBell38 tipped you 120 coins!** ]  
>  [ **MigueL** : arruina me papiiiii ❤️️💕💋 ]  
>  [ **vmb4567** : Im ready to give you my cum🍆💦💦 ]

 

A leather smack over the smooth globe of his ass sets his chat box ablaze and by now he’s not even reading it anymore, but falls into the slipstream of his own fantasy. Some part of himself shuts down to feel the genuineness of it forming its own skeleton, and not the faded greyness of a half-baked daydream. He wants the whole kaleidoscope, he wants to feel breath on his skin and believe it’s another soul close to him, kissing him, wanting him, a warming voice telling him he’s beautiful, so beautiful—

“I wanna feel you right here.” He draws the line from his balls up his taint to the rosy furl of his ass and he’s so heart-stoppingly exposed, and hell, nothing turns him on more.

“Are your eyes on me?” A long moan drains out of him at his own words and he turns on his knees to face the camera, sliding his gloved fingers down his chest as he sits back on his heels and opens his thighs out wide, caressing a diamond of thumbs and forefingers across his hard cock and midriff. He shifts up his tank top to stretch the hem over and around the back of his neck but not completely removing it. It’s slow, deliberate choreography, taking sweet time to run his fingers through his dark hair and sigh with teeth-worried lips he can’t help but bite into when he moans.

He's a fantasy to thousands but he's truly alone in his own, selfish and still a million times generous, a strange dissonance he finds easy to accept when there's no-one else's sweat, no-one else's repugnance spreading through him.

He dives an ocean’s depth into himself and spirals like he’s been dealt one big smack at the prospect that Shiro may be watching him, teasing himself as hard as he is, watching him with that winning smile as he spreads his legs more and runs the length of his cock through the V of his fingers.

“Are you watching me, baby?”

The thought’s holding him captive, a double shot of adrenaline fires straight into his veins with wicked electricity.

“I hope you are. There’s so much more I wanna show you...ahh…” He reaches for his nipples to squeeze them until the dusky pink nubs flush red with infatuation, like his cheeks, like his heart, dreams of Shiro’s teeth nipping them raw.

“So much more...mmm… I’d take you apart so good.”

The pieces of his fantasy fall in such natural waves he can't suppress the ache it leaves him in — greedy, thirsty, wanting just about everything out of necessity in any way he can have it. And right now, he falls onto his back and sucks two fingers nice and wet and pushes them straight into himself, around the point that bites at the cutoffs of his gloves and leaves every muscle quivering.

“I taste good too, baby,” he purrs around the words, chasing it with a full bodied shiver that renders him breathless, a need to breathe greater than his whole being when he images what Shiro’s cock would be capable of doing to him. Fingers are a far cry.

“Let me make you sweat...” he breathes to Shiro's black digits prying him open stroke by stroke, leaving him bruised and fluttering on the inside, just as too much becomes too little and Keith has to lean out of shot to grab the sleek object he's been dying to try ever since an anonymous fan bought it for him as a gift. He shows it to the camera for his audience to have a closer look. “Thank you to whoever bought me this beautiful thing. I love it.”

Keith's usually indifferent about glass dildos; something about them leaves him wanting more than the textureless friction provides, but this one’s a literal artisan piece of a teardrop head and notched shaft floating a blown blue and purple nebula within its centre. Looks perfectly sized for him too, not too big, definitely not too small.

“It looks like there’s a whole galaxy in there, can you see it? Now I really can fuck the universe.” It sounds like a horrendous space-porn throwaway, but fuck, he's just really mad on getting off to something so objectively pretty.

He doesn’t waste a second giving the dildo a cool coat of lube and lies back down on the couch, throwing a long leg over the back of it and planting the other one on the floor.

“Take a good look at me,” he tells the camera — tells Shiro — crooking two fingers to motion ‘come here’ before cupping his balls and positioning himself, and when he touches the glass head to his entrance and envisages Shiro’s huge cock breaching him, it’s the dam breaking through and the entire tide filling him.

This is it, he thinks, the fugue to his destruction.

He works the notched shaft in bit by bit, fingers cupping around his balls and letting his voice go unbidden out of him. It’s the filthiest sound he’s ever made to an inanimate object kissing his prostate on the first delicious push and sweat starts to bead on his forehead when he tries for the same sensation on a second thrust, only it's better, keeps on getting better. He takes the glass out and thrusts it back in a little more, a little deeper, gets his fingers around his cock and feels the leather chafe his shaft with delicious friction, makes him mewl like he’s covered in fire.

“Take a good look, baby. It’s all yours...ahh...” he groans, head tipping back and letting his audience see him intoxicating himself on Shiro’s image.

It’s a dangerous line to be toeing — too dangerously honest, just a bit more of his soul than he truly wants to bare but he’s not feeling fear the way he should. In his fantasy, he’s trapped against the cage of Shiro's bigger body, and the other man’s pushing in, muscular arms holding him down any way he wants, making him shiver and scream and _god_ , he wants to be drip-fed this feeling forever.

“Do you see me, baby?” He stares long into the camera, watching him plow himself in the chat window, being ruthless with his own pleasure and basking in both the glory and frustration of having something and then not having it, not having Shiro be real in his arms so he can touch and fold himself over him, carve out a space for himself to fit. Just him. Only him.

“Ahh...make me yours...”

He doesn't know what he's saying anymore. It’s all air in an infinite void and he’s gushing out, going breathless from spinning. His back involuntarily bows with the pressure all on his shoulders and neck, face twisted in pleasure and punching out a moan every time his spine fills with lightning.

“So _good_ , don’t—don’t stop.” He can feel himself getting close when he rolls down again and digs his heel into the fine leather backrest, rocking his hips in rhythmic juts and riding out the feeling of exhilaration piling up.

He’s so achingly close, barely one more thrust to devastation, but god, is it a fight — his balls want to release but the fantasy...god, he wants to chase the fantasy forever and never have it end. He’s so desperately conflicted that he edges himself almost to the point of passing out, pre-cum helplessly dribbling out of his slit as he's toying with his own orgasm, playing with explosive pressure, body quivering so much it _hurts_. He’s so close, so desperately close…

_Shiro…_

“Nnhgh!!”

One last rendering of the man in his mind's eye is all it takes for Keith’s body to let go, and he comes all over his chest in multiple wild bursts, then crashes, boneless, completely spent. It takes him a long minute to do anything at all but swim in endorphins, but eventually feeling finds its way back into his fingers and the hand around his shaft squeezes whatever's left until he finally goes soft. God, Shiro made him come _forever_ , he feels immolated just processing that. Holy hell.

“Wow,” he sighs. There's no other brainless, open-mouthed word that could convey it better. He tilts his head lazily to the camera, brushing his damp bangs out of his face and smiles an honestly to god dreamy smile K_Red’s attitude should have no business making. But it's there, beaming.

“Mmmnn...that was…” Holy goddamn shit, that was a damn epiphany.

After giving it a few heartbeats, he gingerly manoeuvres himself upright, pulling the little table with his laptop closer to him and letting his viewers see the mess he's made of himself. A sensual drag through his cum with his gloved hand is almost always par the course for K_Red's sexual encore, always happy to beautifully ruin a pair of gloves this way. Mmnnn. 

 

> [ **shyguy_6** : You fuckin slayyyyyed me!!! 🍆💦💦💦 ]  
>  [ **MagicMikey** : SO INCREDIBLE BABY💘💋💋💕💕😘😘😘😘😘😘 ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : MagicMikey tipped you 1000 coins!** ]  
>  [ **_xxxdan** : JFC!!! The most i've ever seen you cum 💦💦😍😍😍 !!! ]  
>  [ **thatscrazy777** : I LOVE YOU SO MUCH 😍💗😍💗😍💗 ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : RexTitan tipped you 1000 coins!** ]  
>  [ 💰 **TIP : RexTitan tipped you 300 coins!** ]  
>  [ **oxox1001** : FuuuuuuckKKK!!! ]  
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The chorus of tips doesn't stop chiming and the moneybox total stands at 95780 coins — nearly five grand. What a fucking killing.

“Thank you so much, everyone. I hope you enjoyed it.” It’s exhilarating watching as the tips keep pouring in a thousand coins at a time. He removes his soaked tank top and musses the damp hair stuck to his forehead and moves out of shot for a moment to clean off his cum with a wet wipe, then falls back into a tired naked heap on the couch to watch the chatbox blur with the flood.

It’s turned into radio static as he lays there half stunned, absolutely subsumed with awareness of how pent-up he’s been about Shiro for nine fucking months. Sometimes it takes a lothe-filled orgasm to make him realise he clearly has a fetish for guys who thoroughly manipulate his emotional boundaries, core him out just by asking for his phone number and not even calling him. Keith fears he’s fallen so badly for Shiro he’s about ready to have a mini breakdown in the middle of the session and he can hardly deal with it.

“I’m...I just need a second. I’ll be right back,” he tells his viewers, mutes the chat window and goes to his phone, aching somewhere wanting to see Shiro’s name lying at the top of a stack of notifs. But it’s Allura’s name instead. 

 

> **Allura**
> 
> Don’t make any plans for Friday night, we’re going out!”  
>  18:43

 

Keith would argue that after last night, that sounds like a deathwish. He texts back. 

 

> **Keith**
> 
> im not sure thats a good idea  
>  19:21

 

Her reply comes through almost immediately. 

 

> **Allura**
> 
> It’s a VERY good idea. You’re not allowed to bail.  
>  19:22

 

What the fuck is she planning? 

 

> **Keith**
> 
> do i get a choice?  
>  19:23

> **Allura**
> 
> NOPE. SEE YOU FRIDAY 👍👼
> 
> 19:24

 

At this rate if Shiro doesn’t drive him straight into the ground, Allura certainly, certainly will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all love a gay disaster 😇
> 
> (Also, odd thing when I was posting this, AO3 renders the LGBT emoji flag as a white flag so I had to change them to ordinary rainbows. Hmm...)
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/GreenDestiny000)  
> 


	3. RedLion

Keith’s beaten himself up so many times over the last few days that it qualifies as a small death in some way. He's been on the perpetual slide since Monday, tether loose and floating in an unknown, uncomfortable stillness. He’s had exactly one good night’s sleep all week, and that was when half of him was braindead — now, at the asscrack of Friday’s dawn, he's never been more self-aware in a pocket of insomniac spacetime that the world is watching him, probably painfully, trying to figure out how he lost control of all elements of his life.

He can't even pay respects to himself in front of the mirror at 6am wrapped in a cocoon of blankets when he sees what’s become of himself. He keeps looking like he’s waiting for an epiphany to drop from the sky and save him from the monster flourishing in the rain of his depression, all because of one man who won't call him.

Yesterday he slept for about three hours during the day in the second bedroom, got up only to shower and cam, ate peaches out of the tin then went back to sleep again, completing the cycle of what constituted as day four of his ‘miserable about Shiro’ bender. And now, it's day five.

It's a terrible way to be living, having ruinous thoughts between broken bouts of sleep and making an unhealthy habit out of checking his phone like some lovestruck teenager. The dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes and the mat in his hair makes him want to disown himself the longer he’s forced to look at it, but nothing snags more than the thorn in his mind turning carnivorous, what Keith thinks does him permanent damage when he dwells on the thought of Shiro going home with someone else that night after the awards party.

The trouble is starting to take its toll that even his mom has to say something about it.

“Your face is going to stay like that if you keep making it,” she tells him through facetime.

It’s evening where she is, holed up somewhere in the red rock valleys of Morocco, but somehow there’s enough signal to be able to make a video call from a tablet. She doesn't look or sound too rough, looks to be in good spirits. He wonders how peace talks are going over there.

“Something’s the matter,” she surmises, dragging his head back into the conversation.

“No, I’m—I’m doing ok,” he says, but as moms do, she doesn't retire on that so easily.

“You’re not. I can tell.”

Keith relents with a sigh. Even from six thousand miles away, he’s been sussed. “I think I might be coming down with something,” he says, which isn’t entirely false, but how is he supposed to explain the elephant in the room to his mother when he can't even put it into reasonable terms for himself? His nerves are apparently not what they used to be when facing up to mom, even on a video feed, and she most probably _will_ find out one way or another about her son’s massive crush on another cam model whilst in the dust caves of a hellhole and he needs to steer her away from it. “How are peace talks going?”

For the first time that call, he sees her expression falter. “Not so well. The rebels are getting desperate. While on reconnaissance, I spied them planting IEDs by the roadside just outside of the town where Kolivan and the targets have stationed their outpost. Our team are going to have to disarm them and make the area safe again before we can move out. But thanks to Kolivan's infiltration, we finally have intel on where the head of the Almunqadhun is. We’re going to take him and the rest of them out as soon as we’re given the go-ahead.”

 _The Almunqadhun_ , Keith thinks. Fuck the lot of them.

“Bet Kolivan’s pissed it’s taken three months.”

“He is. And now he’s just anxious to clean up house.”

Keith would imagine spending three months as a sleeper agent in the Arab ghettos blending in with a terrorist faction would make anyone want to break rank and kill these motherfuckers once and for all.

“Be safe out there, mom.”

“Of course. If all goes according to plan, I should be back in the US within two months. I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me too. It’s just...it’s never easy thinking about where you are with everything that’s happening over there.”

“There’s nothing for you to worry about, little starlight. The Blades have their target right in their sights. We'll wipe them out and then we can be done with this place. I’ll always make it back to you, I promise.”

“I know, mom. I love you.”

“I love you too, Keith.”

She waves to him before cutting the signal and suddenly the lead he felt in the pit of his stomach bobs up weightless to the surface. He guesses while he’s fighting his own internal war, his mom is out there fighting the real one, with real consequences and real lives at stake. If he can’t evaluate himself on that kind of level every time something unannounced and soul-clinching comes into his life, what right does he have to complain at all?

So he takes a shower, shaves, washes off the dregs of his morning and emerges repurposed with a strong coffee and new determination to be productive for the greater good of his soul. He sets aside an hour to finally respond to the stack of emails in his inbox and engage with people on social media who worship him with @’s like it's going out of fashion.

The staff at Rampant Magazine have sent him over the re-drafted contract for their proposed interview and photoshoot a few weeks from now, so that’s the first thing he takes are of, mainly because it’s five thousand easy bucks for a forty minute interview and a semi-nude photoshoot that’ll happen at the CamBoyfriend’s LA studio under their security. Keith’s terms were agreed to, in other words. Good. Having enough agency to tell people where to go is at least one power he can pull to his satisfaction.

He whittles down a few more emails and drains half of his coffee before attempting to tackle social media. It’s a sinkhole, for sure; never stops being overwhelming and hypoxic, an obvious offense to Keith who’s unsociable by nature, but he’s evolved a sensationalist part in himself that snatches every advantage presented, and doesn't hesitate to make full use of the multitude of social platforms all CamBoyfriend models are encouraged to have.

Peering into his Twitter notifications, there's thousands upon thousands of reblogs, likes and @’s clustered into manageable bites he hasn’t the capacity to fully digest, but there’s a noticeably frequent hashtag floating in a blue hyperlink — “#RedLion” — like two separate jigsaw puzzles finding a fit, that paired together makes Keith’s heart the most tempestuous it's ever been.

He’s used to the speculation about his private life by overzealous fans. Once he reached a certain milestone of notability it became an expectation along with stalkers, impersonators and the interest of foreign billionaires who like to buy the pleasure of boys for cash. Keith’s always played his cards too close to his chest for them to suss out all that he doesn’t want them to know, but this is a ‘holy fuck’ moment if ever there was one — _holy fuck_ , in the unholiest of exclamations as he’s staring at himself, albeit in graphite pencil form, taking BlackLion’s dick with all the talent of this artist’s wishful thinking.

 _Fuck_ , they’ve really gone and done it; they’ve taken his nudes and Shiro’s nudes and reconfigured them into works of art, made him fucking insatiable at taking Shiro’s cock, and Shiro limitless in giving it to him and god, why does it look so good? _They_ look good — together. He’s knackering his thumb scrolling through all the artworks and manips because there’s tons of it, and he’s just mouthing _“How?”_ repeatedly, trying to figure out where this whirlwind came from that’s swept the internet into delirium over him and BlackLion being a _‘thing’_ that needs a _‘name’_ and he’s not prepared for any of it.

And _why_ , even. Sure, some cam performers fuck each other, and some are in open relationships, but he hasn’t been in a room with BlackLion since the awards party, much less fucked him outside of his own goddamn head, and unless he’s outed himself in some way (which he doubts, because he’s horny, not stupid), fans have been putting two and two together and getting the square root of infinity, and now there’s fanart and fan theory all over the place. 

They're not even smashing by text and that’s the real tragedy in Keith’s eyes. No midnight sexts, no casual banter back and forth, nothing. Instead, it's left to a collective to pluck the fantasy straight from his brain and lay it all out for him to be scandalised at that a drawing of himself got to have Shiro's dick before he did.

Fans are so invested in their would-be relationship that they’re even tracking Shiro’s recent clothing choices as a barometer for how balls deep they’re into each other, apparently. 

He’s mostly livid with pent-up desire when he’s cruising Shiro’s Instagram that he hasn’t paid a lick of attention to his outfits of late, which probably says _too_ much about how many ceilings his state of mind has dropped through. That, or he’s mastered compartmentalising details that glare at him like deliberate provocation.

In any case, his mind sloshes back to last night when he was fixating on Shiro’s latest abs workout, muscles stretching and crunching going through the motions of hanging sit-ups. Keith bites nervously on a nail as he pulls it up again (for clarity’s sake, because it really is), and confronts the glaring red of Shiro’s shorts sliding down his thighs with a bellowing growl and collapses straight down onto the bed with a dead thud.

This is what he gets for falling off the wagon of a bad joke no-one bothered to tell him about — the one that Shiro's in on and charming the hell out of his fans because it's what BlackLion thrives on; to tempt and to goad. It's how it's always been between the two of them before personal feelings started getting involved. Keith kneads his temples for the fiftieth time that morning, trying to scrub away anxiety and nine hundred explicit scenarios scrolling behind his eyelids, as if he doesn’t need more reasons to hate what’s become of this obsession.

He doesn't want to examine this too closely and think that there's an open dialogue happening through shades of red on a three-tiled grid, or subliminal placements of it; a red snapback, a red coffee label, a blood orange waiting to be pulverised in a blender. Shiro’s a monochrome man; it’s as much ingrained into his aesthetic as red is to Keith’s but as far as this #RedLion momentum is going, anything could be read into and taken out of context with fans who fish for crumbs in spaces as wide as solar systems to keep the hope of their ship afloat. In Keith's case, that hope is a very sharp sword to be impaled on.

His phone vibrates in his palm and he swipes to look at a new message from Allura yet again reminding him about tonight. Thanks to the daily reminders, he literally cannot be made to forget. He ruffles his hair and sends a peace sign emoji that takes care of that. It was reluctance at first, but now he's actually looking forward to getting wasted in a dingy club and returning to ground zero.

Later, when all the smoke has cleared, he’ll throw his head back and laugh at all of this nonsense, how, at twenty-three years of age, he managed to dodge a fuck-ton of existential crises because he inherited both of his parents' ability to breeze through a world of shit.

With his heart beating like a trapped canary inside his ribcage, God only knows he’s trying so hard to be that person.

 

* * *

 

Therapy is a ride out on the mountain passes of Angeles National Forest, drawing tranquility from the landscape and spires of pre-pubescant pines festooning the edges of wilderness. Perching atop of Red, he eats his In-N-Out Burger on a valley pass overlooking the reservoir and where a meteor took off half of the eastern mountain face.

Old memories always find a way of resurrecting themselves out here, when he needs time and space just to breathe again. He’ll probably never get away from them, even fifteen years after the evacuation. He thought California would be a temporary state of affairs, and after the clean up and rebuild, he and his father could go back home to Arizona and he could return to school and see his friends and dream of the future under the desert stars.

 _“It’s not worth dying for, son,”_ his father had said to him back then, in their ancient pickup truck spitting up dust along the scorched lands just outside of the exclusion zone. _“Things are gon’ be different, but we’ll get through them. I promise.”_ He remembers that reassuring pat of his father’s heroic hand on his shoulder and the flowering, insulating warmth sprouting from within, as clear and as unflinching as the memory still is to him.

_“We survived, son. You’re a survivor. Don’t ever let yourself forget that.”_

Keith feels like he’s been trying to survive for fifteen years.

> **Keith**  
>  #RedLion is trending on twitter. what the fuck…….  
>  15:32

He paces as he taps the text and sends it to Allura before regret can set in. The saner choice would be to say nothing; Keith more than knows this. Allura’s the sort of person who’d throw confetti all over a revelation like this, and he certainly doesn't need her wrinkle-nosed tease, but then again, there's not many people fighting in his corner at the moment.

He upturns stones with the toe of his boot and huffs at his predicament. One minute he’s in the sweet bliss of ignorance and the next he’s chewing himself and spitting out what remains of his corpse for the prairie coyotes to have at. He has no idea what he’s doing anymore, and by the time Allura’s four crying laugh emojis roll in, it may as well be a single bullet to the back of his head.

> **Allura**  
>  😂😂😂😂  
>  Oh my!!  
>  I'm so proud! You’ve officially been shipped!  
>  Good thing were going out tonight. We need to celebrate!!!! 🤭🍾  
>  15:33

Keith knows it's because of his own stupidity that his effigy gets thrown into the bonfire all the damn time.

> **Allura**  
>  I did a quick bit of digging and found a press shot of you and Shiro from the awards night.  
>  << LINK >>  
>  15:36

His thumb deliberates over the link before curiosity taps it open, and there they are: K_Red and BlackLion locked in deep conversation over a tiny table, specifically it’s Shiro talking and he’s listening with a moony, attentive smile. This must’ve been the start of the blow-up, and Keith doesn’t have to examine the photo long to know that it's going to torture his whole life.

> **Keith**  
>  for fucks sake…  
>  why are ppl doing this to me?  
>  15:38
> 
> **Allura**  
>  People obviously love the idea of you two together!  
>  15:38

All this attention is the exact opposite of how he wanted to be dealing with this shit. If it’d been anyone else fans were creaming themselves over he wouldn’t care, but this is nicking too close to his skin to be comfortable with, especially when the potential for hooking up with Shiro in the foreseeable future was on the table. He doesn’t need or want fans to be playing God with his life.

> **Allura**  
>  Keith, have you seen some of this fanart? ...WOW  
>  😳😳😳😳😳  
>  15:40

Of course he has, one of the first things he saw was a sketch of himself swallowing down BlackLion’s huge cock. Who knew his jaw was that phenomenal?

> **Keith**  
>  DONT LOOK  
>  the fuck allura!  
>  they shouldnt just put 2 ppl together like that  
>  15:41
> 
> **Allura**  
>  Yes, because no one has ever put two beautiful people together and imagined what it would be like…  
>  15:42
> 
> **Keith**  
>  he hasnt even msged me  
>  15:43
> 
> **Allura**  
>  Then YOU message him! You need to break this habit of never messaging a guy first  
>  15:43

Going by his track record, he’s never had to. Shiro's the first and only guy he’s willingly given his number to who hasn’t responded back within the first forty-eight hours and it pinches at him more than he can stand.

> **Keith**  
>  i dnt even know why this is even happening...  
>  15:44
> 
> **Allura**  
>  You don't? Because the chemistry in that photo speaks for itself.  
>  15:44
> 
> **Keith**  
>  wtf? how?  
>  15:45
> 
> **Allura**  
>  Sweetie, you might want to live under a rock forever but I’m not blind. And I’m sure your followers aren't either  
>  15:46
> 
> **Keith**  
>  we were just talking…  
>  people talk. its normal  
>  15:46
> 
> **Allura**  
>  Talking is what I do with Romelle or my mother.  
>  This is you talking: 😍😍😍  
>  15:47
> 
> **Keith**  
>  see, youre twisting it like they are  
>  we were JUST talking  
>  why is that such a big deal?  
>  15:48
> 
> **Allura**  
>  Because YOU’RE a big deal! You’re ‘Top Boyfriend’! You and Shiro are No.1 and No.3 on that website. Of course something like this was going to make fans blow their heads off.  
>  Gosh, it’s spectacular! This is so exciting!!!!!  
>  15:49

Her fujoshi enthusiasm stirs while Keith’s perpetually holding back a scream. He’s halfway up a mountain sweating in his vintage Japanese racing jacket under the mid-afternoon sun and Allura’s not done at all. 

> **Allura**  
>  Besides, you're not even seeing the bigger picture here  
>  15:50
> 
> **Keith**  
>  what bigger picture?  
>  15:50
> 
> **Allura**  
>  The one that has Ultimate Power Couple written all over it 🤴💘🤴  
>  Think of how many subscribers you’d gain if you joined forces, more fans = more $$$  
>  You two would rule the world!  
>  15:51

_Fuck._ She’s... Damn… His head wants to explode.

> **Keith**  
>  we’re not gonna be manipulated into becoming a couple just bcs ppl want it!!  
>  15:52
> 
> **Allura**  
>  But you do though, don’t you? Want to become ~something~ with him  
>  15:52

No. Yes.

> **Keith**  
>  i dont know  
>  15:54

He blows the bangs off his forehead with a frustrated sigh. He really doesn’t want to face this question yet.

> **Keith**  
>  this is fuckin ridiculous  
>  15:56
> 
> **Allura**  
>  KEITH. You’re going to LOSE him!  
>  He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen pull off that ridiculous two tone hair. And he's made you smile like I've never seen in such a long time.  
>  Do something!!  
>  15:58

He suspends the conversation in limbo, probably putting the pause where it ought to be, or where fate deemed it should fall, because when he gets home and punishes his shoulders under the hot shower and mulls over his evening outfit, elusive Shiro finally, finally shows up with a text.

> **Shiro**  
>  [[ PIC ]]  
>  Got her back from the body shop, wanted you to see her first.  
>  Also Hi, I’m sorry it's taken me awhile to txt you back, hope you can forgive 🙏  
>  18:48

Keith's deadface sealed up when he was expecting another incoming from Allura, but he splits in a tremulous buzz at not only the text being a fucking surprise, Keith’s jaw drops when he enlarges the photo of the black sports car and immediately recognises the contours of a Ferrari 458 Spider in oil slick black. His heartbeats crash like waves and he won’t even allow himself to be nonchalant when Shiro somehow has his hands on one of the most beautiful cars on the planet.

> **Keith**  
>  no fucking way. thats yours???  
>  shes stunning  
>  18:55
> 
> **Shiro**  
>  Hell yeah she’s mine  
>  I'm gonna come pick you up in it, if you'd give a guy the honor  
>  18:57

It renders him momentarily immobile, stuck staring at the screen for minutes while coming to terms with the cursed life he’s been assimilated into. He somehow finds that deep-rooted zen within himself to not cuss out his entire apartment over Shiro obviously asking him out after he’s been waiting for _fucking_ ever for him to say _something_ , and it has to be tonight of all nights. He types before he breaks something.

> **Keith**  
>  umm...im supposed to be going out tonight with allura  
>  19:00

Shiro’s reply comes through almost immediately.

> **Shiro**  
>  I know.  
>  19:00

That’s when Keith realises, right then and there, that Allura’s played him like a fucking fiddle.

He texts Shiro his address and about an hour or so later, the gorgeous, unmistakable roar dampens to a resting purr outside of his building. Then his pocket vibrates.

> **Shiro**  
>  I’m outside ✌️  
>  20:42

To be fair, everyone within a five hundred meter radius would know that he’s outside, and still the text makes the butterflies chisel through Keith’s ribcage. He curtain twitches for a hot few seconds admiring the distinctive silhouette of that sleek black supercar parked up out front, making mush out of his insides. He flattens over his outfit one last time; a simple but sharp black boot, jean and t-shirt ensemble, before slipping on his leather gloves and red short body jacket and heading out of his apartment.

Keith will say it’s the cool autumn night hitting his face and not the sight of Shiro leaning casually against that stunning vehicle that steals all the air from him. He’s looking down at his phone, tall and broad-shouldered, combat booted legs crossed over at the ankle and the sin of his skin-tight top pulled provocatively over his muscles and leather jacket combo is too much for anyone to be unfazed by. Keith’s been living off a dream for the past few days and he’s concentrating so hard on tamping down his wonder that he doesn’t realise he’s stopped walking until Shiro has to make up the distance himself.

“Hey, Keith. It’s good to see you again.”

All Shiro has to do is smile and say his name for Keith to fall into the gravity well again — all the way down. He clasps Shiro's outstretched metal hand and Shiro brings him in for a hug and the man’s cologne and body heat set off the dizzying chain of reactions like the very first time their eyes fell on each other from across a room. The rush finally peaks with the glance-over Shiro gives him as they step back, grey eyes navigating the length of him, casual yet every bit as incinerating.

“You look great,” Shiro says, whilst looking like a full course meal himself.

“You're not so bad either,” Keith replies, letting the thirst speak for itself. “We’re nothing compared to her though,” he motions to the beauty that’s whipping up his boyish excitement. A Ferrari — fucking Christ, Shiro has a _Ferrari_.

“I know, right?” Shiro softly chuckle. “She’s been my project for about a year or so. Feels good to finally have her on the road.”

Keith’s circling and circling, stroking the flat of his gloved palm over the freshly waxed bodywork, cataloguing a cornucopia of details and contours like he’s mapping the planes of something mythical that shows up once in a thousand lifetimes. She literally dazzles, from the five spokes of her carbon black rims to her streamline convertible roof, _fuck_ , all of it is sublime.

“Can you believe she was a write-off?” Shiro swipes his flesh fingertips over her affectionately, delicate as a fluttered wing.

Keith’s eyes widen. “You serious?”

“A hundred percent — chassis was all bent out of shape, rear axle broken, wheels gone, she was a wreck. But I took one look at her insides and knew she was salvageable. Scrap dealer gave me a great deal and with a lot of long evenings, I put her back together again. And I err...wanted you to be the first to go for a ride in her.”

Keith just tilts his head around to him, holding Shiro for a few empty seconds, and realises Shiro’s making a sort of confession to him; a cheek-flaring, nape-touching, maximum cuteness confession that's manipulating Keith into disrobing his nonchalance for a genuine, candid smile.

Shiro’s flesh hand that was leaning on the window frame glides up to where Keith’s rests on the roof and stops tantalisingly shy of touching distance, the most tactile way of non-flirting but still managing to elicit its effect. “Tell me you thought I drove her straight out of the showroom.”

“If you thought it would impress me? Yeah, I kinda did,” Keith replies, aloof rather than awed like he really is because he's really very impressed, he’s almost inarticulate.

Shiro returns him a half-smile. “And did it?”

Keith sees it for what it is: an irrepressible smugness that can only be reserved for someone who’s managed to reverse a car crash. This is only the start of ‘things that Shiro does' that makes his defenses fall to the wayside. “Not until you told me it was all you,” he answers honestly, and watches Shiro's happiness bloom in real time. “Can’t believe someone wanted to scrap one of these. They don’t even make them anymore.”

“Then you know exactly why I had to rescue her."

“I'm speechless, really. She’s...a work of art.” He’s spellbound. Truly. Cars like this only exist as private collection showpieces nowadays. “I thought red was the Ferrari colour, but black sure looks sexy as fuck.”

“That's not the only thing sexy about her,” Shiro says, pulling the vertically hinged wing door open and gesturing for Keith to get in before striding over to the driver’s side, and damn if Shiro opening Ferrari doors isn’t going to be ingrained in him for a while.

When the driver side door closes, it's suddenly just the two of them ensconced within its quiet capacity, only a center console separating them and tinted windows heightening the intimacy tenfold. Keith’s ridden in some really shitty vehicles, let an old date blow him in the back of an SUV so offensive to his taste Keith knew he had to get rid of him. Here, Shiro’s running him through the bespoke specifications he built into the cars mechanism on an internal computer within the Ferrari’s dashboard, lighting up a hologram model of the car in midair that he’s able to manipulate and tune with the flick of his prosthetic fingers and it blows Keith’s mind. Shiro and his car are interconnected, and it’s by far the most brilliant thing Keith has ever witnessed.

When the car powers to life, a thunderous rumble growls out, heavy like Red’s, except its octaves lower, in that extreme, guttural, bone-rattling register that pleases Keith’s every cell, and imagines it does the exact same thing for Shiro when he glances over to see the satisfaction rise in his face.

“The amount of torque in this thing is insane,” Shiro turns up a grin as he puts her into drive and pulls off, and no matter how much Keith reasoned with his soul that he didn’t want to fall into the depths of this man, he’s going in so hard and so fast that he won’t be able to stop himself from eviscerating into the atmosphere. 

✦ ✦ ✦

They spot Allura’s silvery bouffant before she clocks them from across the street, waving to them about half way as they’re snaking through traffic and dodging the spree of clubbers risking it through a slalom of taxi cabs. Arm in arm with Romelle, she jitters happily on the spot when they approach.

“Ohh! You made it, you made it!” Allura claps, her excitement throwing out sparks they all receive a bit of shock damage from. “Hi, Shiro!”

Keith needn't bother reacquainting them, she’s already on him, clasping around the crook of Shiro’s jacketed elbow and tipping up on her chunky platform heels to kiss the air beside his cheek.

“I'm so happy you came,” she says when they separate, her smile lingering and grip still indenting Shiro’s sleeve. It's an exchange that scuffs at Keith’s usual indifference, takes on a new layer of apprehension like he’s missing a vital piece for this scene to make sense.

He postpones the thought to introduce Shiro to Romelle for the first time, whose signature double ponytails are rolled up into space buns and manicured gel nails flutter him a wave. ‘Dreamy’ isn’t the word to describe how she’s looking at him, scanning him long from top to toe and looking back and forth between them as though she’s sizing them up to be precisely that — a _them_ , a duo, a match, a couple. Keith’s mind keeps snowballing —

“Well then, we’ll be off! Have fun, you two!”

The abrupt announcement gives Keith a mere half a second to prepare for the rug being pulled under him. “ _What?_ Where are you going?”

“Romelle and I are going to _that_ club over there.” Allura points across the strip to the vertical crimson spotlights of the Divine Ruby. “It's Ladies’ Night, and cocktails are half price! Lucky us!”

Next thing Keith knows, Allura’s whisking Romelle away, and he’s shouting at her through teeth to get her to come back, to no effect.

For fuck’s sake. What a way he’s been had...fucking _Allura_ shafting him like this. He should've known better. And all this time Shiro’s been standing there like a piece of hard candy not meant to be mournfully looked at by any means. Keith's had it with his terrible friends but at least he’s got this. “They ditched us. Sorry.”

Of course, Shiro takes it in his stride. “It’s cool. Do you still wanna go somewhere?”

Keith opens his mouth to say something but it dries up and all he gives in answer is a shrug. Sometimes he wishes he wasn't this transparent about the very disappointing aspect of his friends. Maybe he should've weaponised Lance in the same way and made Allura deal with his love sickness for a night, see how she likes it.

“Have you been to The Horizon?” Shiro asks.

The name taps loosely at Keith’s memory. He’s been ‘everywhere’ in a very broad sense but the name doesn’t ring any immediate bells. “Maybe once before, I can't remember.”

“It’s one of the good ones,” Shiro says, walking. It’s really no hardship to fall into step beside him, something like a smile tugs on Keith's face that’s asking too many questions in and of itself — Why is this so easy? How can a man smell so good? Why has he been an idiot all this time to not call first?

A huge queue's gathered for the Comedy Club that they side-step into the crush along the outskirts where waiting crowds are milling around and touts con off their tickets to the festering spawns of LA’s high-society. Keith’s only concern is getting through, but Shiro’s concern keeps finding him through the mass of bodies, putting himself before the stragglers so Keith can easily pass through. It works because Shiro can effortlessly part a wave with a torso like that, but also Keith’s never had someone care enough for his safety to experience whatever warmth sprouts up in his belly.

Once they’ve exited the fray, they head down a bystreet where the side of the block is decked with artful graffiti over crumbling Coca-Cola advertising from yesteryears and the butts of a million cigarette ends litter along the gutter runoff. “It's just this way,” Shiro points, not where the congregation is happening; that’s wrapped around the block at least fifty metres back. This must be the discreet side entrance to the club from what Keith can gather, up the zig-zagging wrought iron staircase where the neon sign for ‘The Horizon’ in squared-off electric blue font and dripping star lights comes into full view. The bouncer at the door is big like Shiro, and knows him somehow.

“Shiro! My man!” The bouncer slaps his hand into Shiro’s metal palm and Keith's introduced to the insurmountable blockade of flesh known as Ricardo. The two ease into a rapport that Keith passively observes for thirty or so seconds, wondering a great deal about the kind of company Shiro keeps and what he should file away for later when he’s feeling especially masochistic. Whatever their association, it ultimately allows them free entry into the dark, booming club that’s a mixture of gothic ironwork and old factory windows jailing panels of glass to grey concrete and exposed brick walls.

Keith could hope to breathe in this darkness, but it’s Friday night and everywhere's packed to the seams, including this club with it’s rough and invasive industrial chic, but they have semi-private spaces for a small amount of people at a time on decks built like metal nests a floor above the dance floor. Shiro’s managed to get them a two-seater corner up there, box seats to an infernal, fluorescent orgy writhing under acid techno down below, although, this is perhaps the worst place Shiro could’ve brought him if he wanted a conversation — it’s loud and the air feels opaque, carrying the scent of iron so heavy that every breath in tastes like a bloody mouth. It’s never going to become halfway acceptable until he’s got a drink in him, which Shiro makes good on by reading it straight from his mind. Smooth.

“What do you want to drink?” Shiro shouts over the music, and Keith feigns that he can't hear just so Shiro can lean in closer and put a tingle at the base of his neck.

"A whiskey,” Keith answers the second time, to which Shiro acknowledges with a nod and leaves the deck to go down to the main floor’s large central bar with lines of bartenders serving non-stop on all four sides.

Keith peers through the slatted metal bars and spots him easily through raving limbs, white forelock lit up like a wild flare under vivid neon. Keith’s been so distracted up until now that only in this riotous hell pit can he begin to fully unpack the situation his friend effectively engineered, and her abandonment set him up for an unofficial date with Shiro.

Once upon a time, he’d rather this man curled with the dust and carried off into the Arizona sunset than get to know him beyond maybe one exclusive business fuck. Maybe Keith still wants to make peace with that, in a way a twenty-three year old would want to meet a guy at a club and take him home for a screw, then see him off forever — just _wanting_ , for the simple, uncomplicated want of another human being for a fleeting moment in time.

Perhaps it is just that, that, and his muscles are tremoring from lack of sleep and not the surreal turn of events unfolding right in front of his eyes, head spinning in circles, going nebulous around the edges at how present and aware he suddenly feels watching the human shape of his oversized desire disappearing into a sea of bodies and coming back to him with two drinks and a smile that Keith’s sure with all the resistance in the universe, would be impossible to walk away from.

Shiro sets down their drinks and shifts into the right-angled booth tucked against the black painted pillar wall and wrought iron rail. They’re conveniently cornered in their little alcove in every literal sense when someone as big as Shiro has little room for his legs without bumping knees, and nowhere to put one of his arms but drape it across the top of the seat's backrest, lining a conscious band of heat around the curve of Keith’s shoulders that's intimate in its closeness.

Keith picks up his drink and Shiro clinks his Asahi Super Dry against the rim of the glass. Without any cues, Keith’s the first to open up, finding it easy once the first drop of alcohol hits his bloodstream. "So, you come here a lot?"

"It's sort of me and Matt's go-to,” Shiro replies, dropping ‘Matt’ like a stinger Keith can’t help but trip his thoughts on.

"Your friend?” he wonders, innocently enough.

"My best friend,” Shiro adds, fondly. The relief it gives Keith is subtle. “He likes the girls here."

The goth slash cyberpunk vibe to this club is impossible to have slipped past unnoticed. A PVC clad mistress with lime green cyber dreads walks past and Keith feels emboldened to ask, "So, what do you like?"

Shiro rakes a canine over his bottom lip and the course of his gaze slips downwards before running it back up and meeting Keith in a static-fire moment of eye contact. "I guess I like the boys." He’s leaning in just a fraction of an inch more with it, and it’s infuriating how easily Keith allowed this to happen.

Keith breaks the intensity with another sip of his whiskey and regains a few inches of space in the maddening headrush. "You're slick, y'know that? You had this whole thing worked out with Allura from the start.” It’s a different person talking, not the one staring in a near magnetic way at Shiro’s less confrontational smile.

"It was all her, actually. She PMed me through Instagram, asked if I wanted to come out to a club with some of her friends. I only came because she said you’d be there.”

Keith grows more excited by the seismic ripple making its way right down the column of his spine at that statement, along with that unbearably fond conviction of Shiro’s focus. He takes a breath to stop himself shivering all over. "I would’ve been the deal breaker, huh?”

“With all due respect to Allura, it wouldn’t be her I would come all this way to see.” It runs out of Shiro so easily to say things like that to him. Keith only wishes he’d stop dismantling with it, leaving him vulnerable to this delicious undercurrent.

"In your fucking Ferrari," Keith demurs, smirking, all for Shiro to put his hands up defensively.

"Look, if you're starting to have infatuations for Black, I'm gonna have to get rid of her."

Keith's genuine laugher spills out then falls soundlessly into a level smile when Shiro gives him that easy grin that softens everything inside of him. He’s finding even small talk does it for him when it’s been ten minutes, half an hour, an hour and the conversation’s still flowing, the earth-thumping music treated as nothing more than background noise tip-toeing around two voices.

They’re swallowed up in a whole tide of conversation, soaking through self-healing cars, the human colony on Mars, that new Korean barbecue place Keith’s been dying to try on South Broadway. They hit on so many common grounds, smile at like-minded opinions, and the effortless silences in all of the spaces in between is nothing Keith’s ever felt so comfortable with. The only way to downplay the sparkling tryst of gathering emotions is to never hit too close to the subject of ‘RedLion’ that's been edging at the forefront of his mind ever since their conversation segued its way onto Shiro’s Instagram.

They were subtle enough getting there. It gives Keith cheap thrills to think that Shiro intentionally detoured until they were both plied enough for it to be open for discussion, or any aspects of their work, for that matter. Nothing’s been off the table insofar as the borders of causal flirting and platonic chit-chat have been reasonably translucent since the start, and they’re not oblivious people, although, Shiro likes to feign ignorance over his thirst trap popularity and it doesn’t wash with Keith.

“What the hell are you talking about? Your videos get an obscene amount of likes each!” is the fact he lets be known and somehow it’s the most stunning revelation to Shiro.

He’s lit from ear to ear. “You watch my Instagram videos?”

_Jesus, fuck._

Shiro fixes him a considering, absolutely enraptured look. "Do you like them?"

This is where the candy wrapper of Keith’s sex dreams start to unravel with wild vibrancy. It’s _because_ of those goddamn videos that Keith’s fantasies have overtaken his basic daily routine, prioritised themselves over appetite, exercise, seeing his friends. Keith’s somehow rigged his body to this habitual frequency that the incentive now is to not be blown clean out of the atmosphere by it every time he comes within spitting distance of admitting it to Shiro. Saying nothing is as close as he's going to get to the flames before he's completely consumed.

But God, if it’s not the way Shiro looks at him, with a beautiful kind of wonder set in his heart-stoppingly handsome face, it’s enough to immolate him on the spot, sear a scar on his lungs that’s integral for him to stay afloat in a world of grime underneath all the pretty.

It feels like forever to Keith, but in that moment, “Yes,” is the only honesty his lips can touch. “Every since you added me, I’ve been watching them.”

Shiro’s eyes drop a fraction to his lips and it’d only take a few inches to lean in and kiss him. The frequency with which it passes through Keith’s mind frightens him, because it’d be as simple as that. A week ago he was resigned to being both viciously attracted and so caught up in loathing that everything else became inexpressible. Now, he’s blazing all over, feeling the blood rushing under his skin like a hemorrhage that’s too close to the surface. Their legs touch and their eyes dip down to each other’s lips on practically every breath; they've hit an impasse that's become far too intense to ever go back to being strictly business.

“I was hoping you'd follow me back when I sent you that request," Shiro admits to him, ghosts the words onto Keith's lips with the softest feathered breaths, because that's how tantalisingly close they've become in this miniscule space, "Watch me, like I’ve been watching you.”

_God._

“My eyes are always on you, Keith.”

 _His eyes on me_ , Keith internally repeats — all of those insatiable camming sessions, all the times he made love to Shiro in his fantasies, all of those incredible orgasms, over and over... Shiro witnessed all of them and the rush of cascading realisation is too much on so many levels — heat and rushing blood and excitement with no air, no way to breathe —

Shiro tilts in the few inches left between them and breathes over the shell of Keith’s ear, straight down his spine-tingling meridian response. “I want to watch you all day,” he all but purrs, infusing every syllable with toe-curling silk that has Keith clawing his gloved-hands into his thighs. He wills himself to breathe…

“I want to feel you.”

_Breathe._

“Taste you.”

_Breathe..._

“Make you sweat.”

_Please...breathe..._

“My eyes have always been on you, baby.”

_...fuck._

“Always.”

Time folds, an eternity of stillness hangs between breaths until finally words tumble out of him, helplessly unguarded. “Fucking hell, Shiro.” He wants to explode out of this own skin with all the yearning it’s left him with.

He’s long since reasoned away the want to keep a lid on his desires — to try and tell himself he doesn’t want this. He’ll never, _ever_ make peace with “Hi” and “Sayonara.” He can’t lie to himself anymore.

The initiative is ultimately with Shiro, who angles in for what Keith’s too weak to resist and Shiro too gentlemanly to take for himself. “May I kiss you?”

_“...Take it.”_

_”...It’s all yours.”_

“God, yes.” It’s instinctual.

Keith’s expecting a crush of lips but Shiro dips in and kisses the corner of his mouth first with the barest brush of lips, and that first gracing touch melts his focus entirely. It’s as soft as butterfly wings, slow licks over his lips, nipping and teasing with the gentlest impulses that Keith willing gives his tongue to.

 _God._ Keith kisses knowing how much he’s wanted this and how lacking a fantasy truly is when the reality is fuller, softer, tastes of bitter beer and masculine sweetness, unravelling his senses to so many new details Keith would’ve found near impossible to conjure of his own volition. Shiro’s metal hand slides to his jaw and a thumb brushes over his cheek, playing coolness against flushed skin and makes his sighs fall in airless, flimsy, open mouthed gasps, it’s so betrayingly fragile but it’s also perfect — the idea of Shiro inside of him is perfect, sweating skin to skin, but he never dreamt that a kiss would prove that emphatically goddamn _wrong_ , can’t wrap his head around this being their first kiss and it’s absolute perfection.

Keith lets their lips touch one more time before the aggressive colours phase back into his vision when his eyes open to the world again. Shiro’s hand still cradles his cheek, stroking a thumb over his burning skin and dusting a final succession of nipping kisses to the edge of his mouth.

“I really wanna take you home, but it's your call,” Shiro murmurs against his lips, gone just as breathless and trembling, illuminating an honesty that’s entirely mutual.

Keith breathes in his heat and cologne and takes in the sharpness of Shiro’s jaw in his hands to move in and thoroughly kiss him again. Nothing in him has the strength to say no anymore. Not now. Not ever.

“Let's go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HAPPENING!! -michaelscott.gif
> 
> Finally, best girl Allura came through for all of us. I'm so excited for what’ll go down in the next chapter when I actually get to writing it azlhflsz;ng
> 
> I’m just gonna mention, I’m taking some creative liberty with describing the locations in this fic because I’ve never been to the USA or California and I’m only going off of what I’ve seen in movies/tv/media and Google Maps. Although the fic is set slightly in the future (so there’s some liberty in that), if anything is glaringly wrong, please let me know 🙈
> 
> 'The Almunqadhun' translates to 'The Saviours' in Arabic, a small nod to The Walking Dead.
> 
> Lastly, you can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/GreenDestiny000) !


	4. Cosmic Clutch

Keith wakes up...

....an odd thing when he doesn't remember ever making it to his bed, or any bed. He doesn't remember this ceiling either, or the unfamiliar ambience of the room, sheets dominated by a scent less than twenty-four hours old in his periphery. It makes him turn his cheek to retreat into the comfort lining the pillows, letting his mind cloud up with a blissed little vignette of lips smoothing over his own and drinking the half empty sighs from him. The aftertaste is sobering where all else lies in disarray, and given his mind’s thorough treachery of late, makes unearthing nirvana in the middle of this dream rather fucking unlikely.

The dream of moonlight and someone else's presence feels like air between his fingers as he wakes up alone and foggy. He can recall the quick dash to the car lot and kisses up against the side of the Ferrari, interrupting Shiro trying to get out his keys just so he could have his lips on him again. After that, the thorough bleed of space and time gets hazy, and he supposes waking up alone with no sign of Shiro and most of his clothes still on skewers the possibility that they fell into bed and fucked the whole night through.

He sits up in the curtain-drawn darkness and spots the blinking notification light of his phone on the nightstand illuminating his keys next to his leather gloves. There's a slight smell of machine grease and aftershave mixing a storm in his senses, already getting heady...

Emotions go tumbling on their own as Keith dissolves back down onto the bed and opens his arms in the expansive space, feeling this room and this bed and these sheets carrying Shiro’s scent that Keith’s been buried in for hours, pressing Shiro’s pillow into his face and inhaling until all the sighs quiver out of him. He’d drown in these pillows if he could, compared to the indignity of getting hard in someone else's bed without them being in it.

It defies all other petty consistencies made by past lovers that Keith’s stowed away into the recesses of his mind, for good reason. None of them have ever put him to bed without taking something in return.

Except Shiro.

He discovers him downstairs, curled up on the sofa with a thin blanket strewn over himself. After the adrenaline of waking up to a new found space, it’s this veritably silent come-down that’s absolutely flooring him, turning the lure of filtered sunshine and deep, restful breaths into food for the real, actual butterflies flitting about in his stomach. Asleep, Shiro’s all kinds of adorably mussed, relaxed in a way that softens his hardbody image. His head rests on his bicep and splits Keith’s focus between the bulging mass and the scar joining his prosthetic arm to it; a mystifying piece of tech if ever he saw one.

There’s just something altogether mysterious about Shiro that Keith can’t quite touch with the bare bones of what he knows about the guy, and he’s becoming increasingly defenseless in defining it against the long list that makes up Keith’s jaded history. The trouble with Shiro is everything that he’s not — he’s not obnoxious, he’s not self-centered, doesn’t bad-mouth others, he’s not controlling or abusive, he’s not morally grey, and the consistency across the board is breaking every standard Keith’s come to expect from all who’ve come before him, with jarring expediency. He doesn’t know the size of the space it would take to accommodate this feeling currently tying him in knots this early in the morning, to shirk it off as anything other than infatuation. He’s infatuated with Shiro — he knows it, Allura and the whole damn world can see it for what it is. The more Keith realises it, the more it hammers away at his ribcage, carving something within himself he wants to nest and protect with every fibre of his being.

When Shiro begins to stir, Keith shoots back up to the bedroom and lies prone listening for the shuffles of activity around the thundering blood in his ears, second guessing if Shiro’s still sleeping or if he’s lying there in the same manner as him, wondering what the natural thing would be to do in this situation. It’s giving him mild panic when Shiro eventually does rise from the telltale creaks and patter of footsteps moving between rooms. As the quiet footfalls climb the stairs, Keith has maybe seconds to play dead or stare enraptured at his phone or do _something_ , but he swerves so madly deciding that he ends up showing Shiro his best feline stretch when he appears at the threshold.

"You're awake. Good morning.”

And _damn._ If Keith has to be looking at that silhouette first thing every morning he legitimately believes he won’t see out the rest of his twenties. The view is mesmerising, the way Shiro's backlit like a messiah of unholy thirst, in _that_ tank top and _those_ sleeping pants. Good-fucking-morning.

"Did you sleep ok?”

Keith yawns as he sits up. "Sure felt like I did." Not that it's any kind of lie. He’s practically purring with contentment having woken up in the land of honey, daisy-fresh and not even marginally hungover.

Shiro folds his big arms and leans against the door frame in an utterly illegal pose. "I figured you must've needed it after falling asleep in the car."

Ah, the embarrassing truth — as if Keith really needed admitting to himself what an incredible idiot he is. He wipes a hand over his face. "I haven't been sleeping well lately," _because of you,_ he doesn’t say. He can’t say. Thoughts as loud as those open up dangerous avenues that Keith forcibly oversteers, perhaps a little too much into faltering. "About last night...I—we were meant to—"

"—Hey."

Shiro pushes off the door frame and Keith’s pulse accelerates the closer he approaches, seating himself on the bed and looking at him with a warmth Keith's only ever seen maybe twice in his lifetime.

"You never, ever have to apologise for that, for anything that has to do with that," Shiro says, patient and reasonable, and the tender presence of his hand soothing down his cheek instantly derails anything Keith ever hoped to say in protest.

Keith swallows thickly, looking down at his hands gripping the sheets in his lap and feels his cheeks flare beyond just heat. A solemn "Yeah" is the only thing he utters before Shiro tips his chin to look at him and presses a soft kiss that barely grazes Keith’s lips. It's smooth and subtle, until Keith seeks more from it, opening up and remembering everything from last night and the way Shiro put explosions in his mind with just a kiss.

“Come on. I wanna make you breakfast.” Shiro presses one last kiss to the edge of Keith's mouth before taking him through the house that could be a page right out of Architectural Digest.

It’s steeped in minimalist elegance without overstatement, accents characterised by the monochrome and steely grey of Shiro’s image, extending clean lines and sharp edges up the sides of appliances and polished coffee bean mahogany floors. As well as that are Shiro’s own statements from his heritage; tatami mats and Japanese retro-futuristic art circa 1950 hang from the walls, finding their own place amongst western modernity.

This place is entirely Shiro’s from top to bottom, a permanence that isn’t a two-bedroom apartment controlled by a shitty landlord. Keith’s only daydreamed about owning his own place when fanatics would cause him to re-evaluate his safety that a meat-knuckled concierge and a fifteen floor elevation couldn’t afford him. But at no time has he ever felt fixed to a point for the sole reason of calling it ‘home’, and never has he possessed the knack for making it beautiful like Shiro's place. A nomadic existence since childhood has swallowed his attachment for staying still for any length of time.

"How do you take your coffee?” Shiro asks, pulling him back from his thoughts with the inquiry.

"Err, just black. One sugar.” It’s the only way he’ll have it first thing in the morning to initiate brainwaves. Currently he's still operating on lizard instinct, being irrepressibly distracted by Shiro's exposed shoulders and arms as he reaches for the mugs in the upper cabinets to pour two black coffees.

He takes his mug from the counter and blows over the steam while Shiro dips in and out of the fridge to find what he needs to make breakfast. He has to repeat to himself that Shiro’s making him breakfast, lets it sink in in and around the imminent flutter up his spine at Shiro going through all this effort for him.

“Is there anything in particular you don’t eat?”

Keith sees the eggs, bacon, tomatoes, blueberries and strawberries lined up on the counter and envisions nothing but delicious things. “I’m fine with whatever, as long as it tastes good.”

“I'm good at working with that,” Shiro winks, and it puts him in a bit of a daze.

Keith registers the innuendo in hindsight, with Shiro only adding to its one-two gut punch with his big, stunning smile that ups him right behind the rib cage. He supposes he walked straight into that one, and it teases him somewhere where it's already getting him thoughtlessly ahead of himself, making him think of ‘RedLion’ and a whole confluence of that shit. “You want some help?” he offers. If he’s idle any longer he might just crack.

Shiro gauges his seriousness for a second, then hands over six eggs and a bowl. “You could beat some eggs?”

“Sure.” Keith cracks an egg into the bowl and the first thing that dawns is the height of domesticity they're portraying right now. It arrives in a soft, liminal flash of existential awareness that opens a doorway to this new reality. Never in his life would Keith have envisaged this for himself, standing in Shiro’s kitchen, breaking eggs to the side of a bowl whilst Shiro chops vegetables next to him, sipping coffee intermittently out of matching Mars landing mugs and feeling oh so comfortable in their newfangled situation.

Shiro’s making omelets for them, Keith finds out, the Japanese way with a square frying pan and chopsticks, flipping layers of beaten eggs into silky tamagoyaki rolls Keith’s pretty sure are going to be delicious. The bacon spitting away in the pan next to it is only minimally tended to because watching Shiro is as enthralling as Hunk when he gets into his culinary zone and cooks up real magic.

"I used to be a disaster in the kitchen," Shiro says with a laugh, "couldn’t even make toast without burning it. But when push comes to shove and you’re living on your own, you gotta learn or you don’t eat.”

Keith was presuming Shiro’d been fed and watered on nothing but zero carb meals and protein shakes since birth to reach the boundless six foot four and single digit body fat ratio he no doubt is. But as it happens, what’s true for Shiro is also true for Keith himself, having taught himself to cook out of necessity to survive on his own means, so he feels a degree of commonality. Maybe Hunk saved him a little by always being willing to feed him, along with his father imparting important outdoor survival knowledge before he ascended from the world. Oh, and how to shoot a hunting rifle.

Shiro admittedly got good at not starving to death. By the time they’re done, Keith’s cleaving the side of his fork through the super soft tamagoyaki omelette that’s as far away from Hunk’s hangover French toast as you can get but no less damn delicious, bacon overly crispy, just the way he likes it, homemade salsa, and summer fruit salad topped with a dollop of crème fraîche and cinnamon roasted pistachios. Lord. “This is so good,” Keith groans with his mouth full.

Shiro lets his pleased smile stretch. “It’s been a while since I’ve had the company of someone for breakfast.”

Maybe cooking together wore down the edges of awkwardness between them and Keith no longer feels like the fragile box that needs tiny, careful hands to unpack. The warm smile Shiro treats him to is about all it takes for him to want to open himself up a little. “It’s been a while for me too. I didn’t expect any of this, but it’s...nice, waking up to...” _”someone”_ echoes around in his headspace and feels rapturously symphonic elsewhere in the hanging silence Shiro mercifully navigates for him.

“I’m gonna be honest here, I was actually worried when you fell asleep on the way back like that. I thought something was in the drink and was about to take you to the hospital. I even called Matt, but he assured me from what I described, you were just flat out.”

“‘Fell asleep on the way to getting laid’ — I can cross that off my bucket list.” God, he’s so mortified he might just die if he doesn’t scrape some humour from it. Shiro laughs along with him and, surprisingly, it doesn’t make him want to set fire to himself.

“I really didn’t know what to do, I didn’t want to leave you on your own without a 'goodbye' or an explanation, but I also didn’t think it right to let myself into your our apartment without—”

“It would’ve been ok, Shiro,” Keith interjects, to save him from having to explain himself. So far Shiro’s been nothing but respectable of his space. “I haven’t known you for long, but I already know I can trust you.”

Most of his time with Shiro up until now has been spent in his head, projecting half-realities onto him that sometimes doesn’t care if Shiro’s objectified, so long as Keith can spill over his physical form and take what he wants. If even Keith is guilty of this, that same notion gives credence to anyone who'd take advantage of an unconscious cam performer in the very same way, given half a chance. “You know that there aren’t many guys in our profession who’d treat me the way you did.”

Shiro stops mid-chew and remains silent, not knowing what to do with that information until Keith goes on.

“We’re here only to please, right? Conscious or unconscious, it’s all still fair game.”

Shiro’s swallow wedges in his throat at what Keith’s saying, in not so many words. “Keith...baby, I’d never—it wouldn’t even cross my mind.”

Keith imminently softens at the ease with which 'baby' drops from Shiro's lips, bathing in its oasis for a second before continuing. “I know. That’s why I trust you. And I generally trust no-one.”

The held tension visibly relaxes in Shiro's shoulders and his expression settles into a smile so soft Keith has to retreat from it to look elsewhere.

Keith would never have wanted to make a go of this if Shiro hadn’t managed to dispel his unwillingness to place trust in new people. He doesn’t know why Shiro inspires so much in a lot of things. He doesn’t know why he’s been having so many butterflies and juvenile reactions just from being in his presence, and how Shiro can slip into intimacy so easily and sluice through the crack in him to rain down streams and streams of warmth.

"For what it's worth, trust isn't something I've had much luck with either. It's an ongoing education. For every scumbag out there, there's another who is a wonderful human being, and makes humanity worth believing in again."

Keith only wishes he had the same amount of positivity. "Everything is a work in progress."

"Exactly. I guess my journey into this came from a desire to better accept myself, and heal... from..." He looks at his prosthetic arm and absently feels the welt of the scar across his nose.

He’s sure that by now he’s allowed to ask about it, but Keith chooses not to, even with the scars crisscrossing Shiro’s upper arm and the temptation to know becoming too irresistible, he’s encroaching on history that’s changed Shiro irreversibly, and knows there can be no privilege found in knowing the trauma that took away Shiro’s right arm.

Shiro clenches his metal hand into a triumphant fist and breathes out a chuckle as though he's never spent a day being angry about it. "It's been one of the best things I've ever done in my life!"

Seeing Shiro shimmering all over takes Keith aback slightly. Shiro broke every stereotype when he became a model at CamBoyfriend. Keith’s never seen another performer with a disability get the type of reception Shiro has. He has a good-natured personality and a body like a god, but it's more than just physical — it’s knowing Shiro has control of whatever he’s been through. He’s eaten his way out of an old chrysalis and reemerged back into the world more beautiful than when he left it.

Keith knows he’s been wrong about a lot of things. There were times when he doubted he had the metal shape to deal with all that comes with the porn industry, but he was dead wrong. He was wrong about some of his ex’s and his coping mechanism for dealing with losing his dad, and now, his next biggest wrong is how cruelly he misjudged someone who was trying to climb their way out of the darkness back into the light. He examines it with an ever lengthening thoughtful silence, trying to gather if this is a pretty good approximation for what it is to be a hypocrite. “You’re really—" he starts, meandering around honesty that still feels too raw to express. "You look really great on camera."

Shiro lets the warmth of the compliment flow into him, and Keith savours the luscious edge to that smile. "We have a lot in common."

 

* * *

 

After every slice of tamagoyaki has been consumed and the dishes washed and put away, Keith craves rejuvenation more than ever. "Is it alright if I use your shower?" It’s probably a bit forward but Shiro does a lot to compromise Keith with how easily he obliges.

"Of course. You're welcome to use anything you want. There's fresh towels and an extra toothbrush in the cupboard. I’ll um...I’ll see if I have anything in your size that you can change into, but I can’t promise."

Keith blinks momentarily at Shiro going this above and beyond for him. “I’m sure I’ll be okay,” he says, stepping up on his tiptoes to meet his height and kisses Shiro like it's the most natural thing in the world, impossibly comfortable in Shiro’s presence and in his personal space. When he pulls away, he feels the vertigo of desire start to storm looking up into Shiro’s eyes. The one thing harder than walking away is not asking Shiro to join him in the shower, something he’s going to have to fix real soon.

Like the rest of his house, Shiro's bathroom is amazing. Just standing on this heated floor is doing something beneficial for his psyche. The glass shower’s big enough to accommodate two of Shiro, and the pebble-shaped freestanding bath, easily three, coaxing Keith with the want to lean over its stone edge and run it until the sides overflow around him.

He takes a long time in the shower, he can’t help it. Lathering up with Shiro’s amber scented showergel isn’t even coming close to replacing the man's existence but it’s as close to its seduction as he can hope, with the suds descending in kisses down his calves, and steamy, humid vapours lapping against his shoulders. He can believe this is how it always is when he’s around Shiro; one perpetually breathless moment after another. Slowly scorching him.

He turns the water off and stands motionless in the thrall of sensations crowding him, air cooling rapidly and condensing on his heated skin and along his arms as they brace against the walls, and Keith’s questioning his own melting point in this sultry haze.

He slides his hair off of his steaming shoulders to wring it before stepping out of the glass stall and onto the blessed heated floor. There were fresh towels, Shiro said, but Keith sees the black flannel bathrobe hanging on the door and thinks nothing of slipping straight into it, cozying himself in the robe’s enormity like a bodywide embrace of Shiro’s big hands and massive chest. He holds the sleeves up to his face and sniffs the scent of him that’s beginning to feel like a mainstay he never want to be without.

Keith’s very thankful for the spare toothbrush, but he really doesn’t suppose Shiro has bobby pins stashed away in one of these cabinets, or something to tie up his dripping hair. He goes on a search for them anyway, and has him feeding his curiosity studying the countertop toiletries and prying little bottles of therapeutic oils out of the cupboard to look. He notices medically prescribed creams only because there are a lot of them; different ointments for different types of skin traumas, some full, some light, some still unopened. With a heavy inhale he puts everything back where they were and ventures no further. No hair band is worth wading into Shiro's privacy like this.

Outside he steps into view of the bedroom where Shiro's rifling through clothes in his drawers. He doesn’t immediately notice Keith’s stopped at the doorway until the long draw of his shadow crests beside his feet.

"Hey, I found you a few things. The sweatpants are probably gonna be..." the conclusion of that sentence dies with a precious whimper when Shiro turns to face Keith wearing his bathrobe and a flirtatious curl of a smile that he lets happen so convincingly despite his heart running a mile a minute.

"Too big," Keith completes for him, leaning against the doorframe and feeling not all that shy about insinuating himself in the intimacy of Shiro’s clothes that’ll only ever accentuate the size difference between them. He steps fully into the room and Shiro's shocked silence manages to speak in other ways with the gratuitous rake of his eyes sweeping Keith from head to toe, probably stands there too long watching, overtaken by Keith’s soft power to fully participate in the kiss Keith leans up to take.

"Thank you," Keith whispers, responding to the thread of their conversation that seems to have been lost in the ether. He’s been consumed by a lot of things Shiro does but he thinks he's spoiling himself witnessing all manner of boyish emotions riding over Shiro to colour his face.

He snuffles, touching the nape of his neck. "I'll just, um...go...take a shower myself."

Keith offers him a small nod, breaking out into a smile that could split his face into two when Shiro’s finally out of sight. A tsunami on the horizon befits the analogy of this feeling; the anticipation of being swept away a tremor in the distance, so faint it could be a dream if he wasn’t already overladen with emotions comparable to a tectonic shift.

Everything’s a million times clearer in the light of day, the quiver he feels seeing his life amongst Shiro’s things; his boots neatly placed by the bed and his jacket hanging over the back of a chair with piles of folded clothes Shiro has yet to put away. There’s disassembled machinery parts on rags on the desk and free weights bundled haphazardly in the corner, all the essence of lived-in disarrangement, all in the essence of the man himself that Keith's wound up right in the middle of. It feels far more intimate than a minutes-long kiss in a nightclub booth, seeing his things amongst Shiro’s — his phone docked on Shiro's charging pad, his keys next to Shiro’s holotab, his leather gloves next to a small bottle of pills — Tramadol, upon inspection.

He’s itching with a desire to touch everything, even though its encroaching on Shiro’s privacy and everything they talked about over breakfast. Still, he doesn’t know why he seeks to feel his way through Shiro’s life. It’s reflexive, the way some of this machinery speaks to him, components that sheen with an aquamarine glow when he touches it, as if it's reacting to him. It’s beautiful, in an alien sort of way. Another looks to be part of a dismantled fuel cell. Could be from a Starfire SS-03 fighter jet, or from the Ferrari, or the same mysterious ore they found in that comet that powers his motorbike engine.

With all this tech everywhere, no-one would even begin to assume Shiro does camming as a side-gig. Keith was hoping to catch a glimpse of it under the surface details, tantalising what he knows is there but hidden out of sight. The shower’s still streaming next door and Keith finds himself guiltily diving deeper, spending a few more exploratory minutes poring over Shiro’s stuff on shelves, in open drawers, acquainting himself with the Shiro who keeps old simulation test scores in ring-bound files, who has a geek streak and rows of old manga and a model of a lion-headed mech from that series Keith can’t remember the name of.

Wedged between ‘Beast King GoLion’ and ‘Terra Formars’ is an object that spoils the congruity of the neat shelf; a photograph, Keith discovers, a small framed photograph with Shiro at its center in his khaki and orange flight suit and a helmet tucked under his arm, beaming a heroic smile surrounded by people Keith assumes are his colleagues, posed in front of a launch pad that looks uncannily similar to the one at the old Galaxy Garrison site at Black Rock Desert.

Keith swallows, throat quickly turning rough as if he’s overturned the wrong memory and unearthed his own past he’d long since buried (he hoped for an eternity). Perhaps it’s what he gets for nosing around other people’s belongings — perhaps, by an even stranger cosmic coincidence, he realises that both of them would've attended the same space school together.

Shiro was a pilot, just as Keith wanted to be.

 

_“...You have your whole life ahead’a you, son. Next year if you keep your scores up, they’ll recruit you into the flight program..._

 

He’s always grounded by his father’s words but he doesn’t want to be hearing them right now, dredging up old memories of what could’ve been. He wants it to join the secrecy he's holding in his hands, all of it a world away from him now.

This was Shiro’s ‘before’, telltale by the absence of a facial scar and metal arm. He stands tall, proud, the kind of dream his own father seemed to have wanted for him that Keith let extinguish like the final pulses of a dying star. Only a vacant, dull ache inhabits that abandoned part of himself now.

As he places the photo back, a loop of a chain catches a leaf of manga, and Keith flips the frame over to find a set of dog tags taped to the back of the picture frame. Intrigue has embedded itself under his skin at this point, and so he eases it from the cellotape, reading the details inscribed onto the thoroughly worn-out surface. 

> SHIROGANE  
>  TAKASHI  
>  612-75-5688 AF  
>  O POS
> 
> SHINTO

“Taka...shi, Shiro...gane. Taka...Takashi,” he reads, soft as a pin drop, drawing each new syllable across his lips for the first time in silent revelation that he isn't the only one who's left something behind.

They both grew up wanting the same thing, near enough. Maybe in another reality they both would've made it, made each month's paycheck flying missions for the Garrison and journeying to the stars. And yet, here they both are, still drifting, still somehow finding each other's orbit amongst strings of the chaos. Not even a meteor shower or an uprooted childhood could've kept him from meeting Shiro.

Barely a week has gone by since BlackLion extended his mouth-watering introduction, tempting the odds that said they would’ve ended up crossing paths one day, by some strange cosmic happenstance. Keith hates to be giving fate this much of the wheel in his life but he suspects there’s always been an audible intake of breath from the other side, waiting, waiting for something like this to happen.

Because he really, _really_ likes Shiro, his perception of this wrapped in months of overgrown, uncontainable, stiflingly hot desire pulling him apart from all sides. He fought so hard against it but it’s always been Shiro from the moment he saw him, charming with a perfect body so gorgeously built he could command a quantum shift in Keith at first glance, make him taste the sex and electricity of his skin from behind a laptop screen. All of this is uncharted territory for Keith, violating the laws of attraction, violating _him_ , and Keith knows if he goes any further, he won't be able to come back from it.

Fuck, this isn't scary. Strength like this doesn’t come from someone devoid of a life’s worth of baggage. Keith’s been through some hell but he’s always given as good as he gets, kept on existing so he can look back in the face of it all and _laugh_. And it’s perhaps only because of this that he can arrange himself this wonderfully on Shiro’s bed, still wearing all of his best manners, and wait for nine months of desire to claw him a new one.

When he hears the shower turn off the tingles start all over, skin goosing and nipples hardening in the suspension of time between the fifteen rapid heartbeats it takes for Shiro to open the bathroom door and walk into his room. It’s where he finds Keith waiting for him on the edge of his bed, bathrobe dropped and pooled around him, one leg crossed over the other and both palms flat on either side of him, feeding on Shiro’s stunned stop without a blink. His stare absorbs Shiro’s with unflinching eye contact, magnifying the intensity for every second he has to wait for Shiro to be compelled into action, aching in even less when he finally does, approaching him in a tiny towel that barely covers anything but he's forced to use in lieu of the one Keith took.

His heart is approaching a hummingbird’s, arrested in fever when Shiro’s close enough for him to feel the heat and heavenly scent radiating off of him. But the traction of their gazes hold solid, no matter how much Keith wants to follow the waterfall of abs down to those muscular thighs and trace the outline of that spectacularly hung cock. Shiro’s expression is placid, inscrutable, and Keith inhales for whole seconds as Shiro’s eyes inexorably drop to the dog tags dangling around his neck.

Their silence about reaches its threshold then.

Shiro’s eyes narrow on him and for the first time Keith receives a look that could eat him alive, his body strung tight and every fiber of him _harder_ than it should be for someone who, in all certainty, has crossed a line. Shiro raises his prosthetic arm, and when Keith thinks it's going to grab him around the throat and tell him to leave, the warmed-through metallic fingertips brush against his sternum to lift the tags over his head, and says, simply, “You found me,” with all the calmness of a moon phasing out of a planet’s shadow.

The little forlorn rasp to it is probably what breaks Keith the most. There’s oceans of unquantifiable weight attached to that statement that Keith would never ask him to explain. Keith's been cradling so many butterflies in his stomach that it’s these small, intimate revelations that are slowly closing up the negative space, occupying that indulgent space in him he wants to fill with anything Shiro wants to give.

He seeks out Shiro's touch to reconnect, and as quick as it happens, the world tips on its axis and he’s bundled into Shiro's lap in a reversal of positions so that Shiro’s the one sitting on the bed and he’s the one trapped in arousal and adrenaline with his knees straddled either side of him. It strikes like vertigo again, except now it’s a slow-moving profusion of neverending kisses on his lips and across his cheek, down his neck, gathering him tight in a bundle of heated nerves.

“Shiro...” he breathes, or tries to, so much of what Shiro’s doing is taking his breath away, kissing him hot and irresistibly deep, he never ever thought he could be this starved for Shiro's kisses but it’s a banquet serving a single starving man, and Shiro’s lips are the only thing he wants to taste. He threads his hands in Shiro’s damp hair and Shiro immediately pulls him in closer, encompassing his entire back in arms made of steel, branding his touch into every inch of contact.

"So,” Shiro starts to say, the only separation they’ve had in long minutes when Shiro pulls away to breathe. Maybe he can breathe for the both of them. “You have any other names?”

Keith takes his time to answer, not willing to volunteer any more information until Shiro kisses him more. "Just Keith."

"'Just Keith'," Shiro chuckles against his lips, "Mysterious."

Keith think’s it’s mutual, brushing over Shiro's forelock and swiping it aside so he can look at him properly, etching the whole catalogue of Shiro’s features into his mind until it burns the depths of him to keep looking. _He’s too handsome_ , Keith keeps saying to himself, it’s nonsensical to think otherwise. He keeps touching a gentle thumb across Shiro’s cheekbones and over the scar bisecting the bridge of his nose and realises Shiro’s too much of a lot of things — too handsome, too sweet, too good for this seedy world.

He wilts down in a moment of weakness, shrinking into Shiro’s less tentative hold, and Keith's coming to terms with Shiro being the better one at coping with another person’s intimacy, letting the shape of their moment morph to fit the precise emotional comfort Keith needs right now. “God, Shiro…” he can't help but sigh, finding serenity in the touch of their foreheads and the sharing of a single breath. “How did it become like this?”

Shiro’s hand inches up his neck to thread through his rough-dried hair and Keith’s clinging to the sensation already, winding up between the pecks at his temple to soak in the look Shiro gives him just before he scoops him up to kiss him again.

“It’s always been like this for me,” Shiro says, licking his lips as though he’s addicted to the moisture Keith lays on them. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you.”

“Yeah?” Keith lilts, gone lightheaded and breathless in the interim of Shiro confession. Shiro's never hidden his attraction for him, and in a lot of ways that makes him the more honourable one out of the two of them. Keith can admit that, in hindsight. He can admit a lot of things when his heart is on a wave, jostling with the struggle to stay afloat. The most admissible of those is that he doesn’t actually hate the many times Shiro expressed to watching him on cam.

“Yeah, baby. The very first time I watched you stream... _boy_ , you made a mess of me.”

He _adores_ it.

He lets loose a delighted laugh, wanting to fray this straying silk thread. “What was I doing?”

Shiro doesn’t have to think long about it, but muses while having both hot palms run up the center of Keith’s back and down his front to tease his nipples. “I don’t know where you were, but...I remember you were on this pretty, pretty white bed in your black leather gloves and nothing else, crushing pink flowers between your thighs.”

Keith’s face fills and all of the hairs on his body stand on end having knowledge of how far back this goes. He’s remembering that one long, surreal weekend in Laguna Beach about eight months ago: peony bouquets and delicate lace bed runners and just a little bit of contempt for the sanctity of marriage. “I must’ve been defiling the honeymoon suite at La Mansión Blanca,” he laughs, filling up with the same kind of joy he felt stepping into that hotel suite in all of his leathers, assaulting classical beauty with an aggressive sexual appetite.

Shiro throws his head back and laughs to the ceiling, finding an extra sort of amusement in that. “Ironic. Of all the people, they let _you_ stay in that room.”

Keith’s quick to reason, “They were out of brides that weekend. Lucky for me.”

"Did they know what you were doing in there?"

"Not a damn clue."

Shiro’s bassy chuckle flutters his heart wild and they catch themselves in a beat of pause, a brightness flaring in Shiro’s enigmatic eyes as he strokes Keith’s cheeks and combs his unruly hair behind his ears. Keith’s so hot in the line of that ash grey stare that he feels the blush on him spreading past his neck and shoulders, can feel it scorching through the whole line of his body, adding to it the kisses Shiro caresses over the divot of his neck and it caves his spine in one fell swoop.

“God, Keith, you were so fucking pretty, I couldn’t stand it. Just like I can’t stand it now.”

Keith can't stand how easily Shiro can say things this sweet and immolating to him, quite frankly. He’s been grinding his naked body up against Shiro ever since they started kissing but he doesn’t want this to be the thing that ends up killing him.

“You know why I can’t stand it, baby?” Shiro more than ushers when the kisses halt at his neck and dark eyes flit to him, blown to bottomless pools that pin him like they did mere minutes ago, making him go up like holy smoke.

“Because I want to do _everything_ to you.”

 _Everything_.

Keith loses his soul to that word. Execution style, right between the eyes. There’s not enough air in his lungs to gasp or even make a sound when Shiro cups him around his thighs and lifts him up, throbbing hard and trapped and suddenly going dumb in anticipation of Shiro’s words and the goddamn strength of his arms. Keith doesn’t know what's pushing this weightlessness within him to plea, practically _beg_ , “Give it to me. Give me everything.”

Shiro deposits him on the bed and slides between his knees to meet him in a crushing kiss, a perfect pressure of lips, heat and hardened flesh on top of him, big and entirely exposed and absolutely devastating him.

There’s no space for dishonesty anymore. He’s fought this pseudo-war with himself long enough to know how excruciating it was watching the angled V taper of Shiro’s torso while he made breakfast and not relive old fantasies of wrapping his legs around that rock-solid core. Now that the real thing is in his grasp, the sheer sight of Shiro is naturally, easily turning him greedy. “Fuck, I wanna look at you.”

Shiro stops mid-kiss to raise him a suggestive eyebrow, to which Keith shoots one of his own, and then Shiro’s untangling and slipping away with the barest hint of reluctance from Keith to let him go. (Within an arm's reach but still so, so far…)

“You wanna look?” Shiro teases, lips all kiss-bruised and cheeks flushed pink. His smile’s like a cloud of cotton candy but everything else bulges obscene with cords of muscle honed from hours and hours of dedication, pecs thick and almost unreal to Keith’s eyes, except he could never dream up anything this beautiful, this perfect sitting back on his ankles letting Keith’s eyes prowl the length of him, stroking his deeply defined six-pack abs and that huge, amazing dick and all that he can do with it…

“Take a good look, baby. It’s all yours.”

 _Fuck,_ and his goddamn sinful mouth.

Keith hasn’t a clue when it all descended into madness like this; Shiro naked in front of him having the cheek to say his own lines back at him and leaving him a puddle on the bed without the ability to even _sigh_. Keith swears there’s no other possible reaction and it drives him _mad_ that nothing’s ever come close to how Shiro’s making him feel, he's never been so ridiculously attracted to another person in his life, who allows the objectification of his body as foreplay to turn him on so much, who’s intelligent and considerate and cooks for him and is also fucking impossible to hate.

His hand reaches out without his mind’s say-so and Shiro wraps his fingers around the offering to kiss it, shooting Keith’s groin and his heart all in one go, no ounce of mercy shown for how completely robbed he is, smoked down to the filter, and Shiro capitalises on this when he crouches between his spread knees to peck a succession of kisses up his thighs and lick him just at the base of cock. He clenches the bed sheets, arching his back and loses his soul for maybe the sixth time in the space of five minutes, _groaning, oh god, Shiro, yes, yes..._

“Lift your legs up for me, baby.”

Keith’s eyes fly open, right when Shiro’s licking the pearls of precum off of his dripping cock and looking at him, his mind consumed with clenched anticipation at the mischief sparkling in those eyes. Keith tightens his fingers in the bed sheets barely two heartbeats into those big hands taking a hold of his ankles and spreading him deliciously wide.

“The amount of times these legs have driven me crazy. _Goddamn_ , Keith.”

The flattering hitch of a curse above him is more erotic than he ever thought possible in such a tiny sound, it bowls Keith over, smug, rippling with soft laughter which hasn’t been easy when his body hasn’t belonged to him for a while now. Shiro’s been searing his nerves stroking up and down his legs and keeping him on a constantly breathless edge that’s turning his knuckles white in the sheets, but it’s this sudden _pause_ in Shiro’s devouring of him that’s going to add murder to his list of kinks.

He cranes his neck to look dizzyingly through his legs and witnesses the advancement of Shiro’s expression going through the motions, from captivated to awed to diabolically turned on. "Shiro...wh—what's the matter?"

“You’re...you’re immaculate.”

_Oh._

His head lolls to one side and watches Shiro with a lump in his throat glide his hands in wonder down his thighs, across his balls, pausing to caress a thumb over the soft pink skin of his hole, luxuriating in the soft plains of him that've had every single unwanted hair zapped with intense pulse light. “My friend Romelle’s an esthetician.”

Shiro’s mouth makes a silent ‘oh’, still unable to take his eyes off of him, surpassing the moment a look becomes an indecently long stare at his twitching hole as though he’s salivating for it. “She did an amazing job.”

Keith wants the bubbles of laughter to take him from the agony of how much his lust is feeding on Shiro’s speechlessness, he’s back to moaning at the ceiling in tortured pleasure, both over-sensitised and dying to be touched, stripped down to his raw nerves and getting ready to die in an instant when Shiro brings his tongue down to lick, suck, kiss and — _holy fuck_ — nibble his fluttering hole and across his taint. “...Oh my god—”

“I’ve thought about spreading you open for so long, Keith,” Shiro purrs, speaking a heated damp breath across his taint that’s going to liquefy his brains, “preparing you just like this, maybe keeping you spread the whole damn day while I eat you out until you never stop coming.”

 _Holy fucking_ god _, he’s…_

“Thought if I ever got the chance I’d see how many times you'd come until it drove you insane. Imagine how many tips we’d make.”

“Ahh...Shiro—!”

"Have you thought about us, Keith?"

Keith’s temperature spikes through the roof at the molten shock of that question. His spine curves and he drags the thought over him until he’s reeling from the mutual fantasy and the absolute savage licks bending him close to a confession.

However, Shiro doesn’t wait for a reply to seal his mouth back over his hole and effectively destroying any chance of getting one. He does it for the pleasure of Keith’s shuddering and clenching and sobbing because until a few months ago, it's all he’s ever thought about, and Shiro knows it. “Ahh, Shiro… _please, mmm_ …”

“Tell me, baby.”

He can’t. It’s too much. Too...

Shiro’s tongue leaves his ass in submission and hauls him up into his lap and Keith’s brain lies bereft somewhere on the bed, trapped in a delirious whirlwind that fades into desperate quiet.

Shiro holds him up and wraps his arms around him and tells him, caramel sweet, despite everything he’s just done, “Tell me what you want, baby. I’ll give you anything.”

He wants what should have happened last night; they’re going to have sex. Shiro could’ve continued tasting him like that for another decade and Keith would’ve let him but right now they’re going to have explicit, soul-shattering sex, and it’s going to be fucking good for both of them.

Shiro nuzzles the tip of his nose and gasps beautifully when Keith unexpectedly licks in for an appreciative kiss, grinning his self-satisfaction when he pulls away and Shiro’s eyes glow incandescent with fire. “I want you to fuck me good, Shiro.”

The answering low growl is as precise and articulate and animalistic as Keith feels, sucking all the air out of his lungs when Shiro’s hard kiss lands and nearly knocks him to the bed. Shiro leans over towards the nightstand and rummages for lube and condoms with trembling fingers disguised as enthusiasm, seeing him fish one out from the little blue and black box gives rise to an excitement in Keith that more than a single condom permits. Much more. “Wait—How many are in there?”

Shiro counts, “Four.”

“Fuck.” Keith deflates back down to the bed, stricken. “That’s not gonna be enough.”

Shiro blinks for a second, his mind overcome by a mass of static noise. “I...I have one in my wallet. That’ll make five.”

Keith’s eyes turn to him, dreamy. “Go get it, baby.”

“Keith!” Shiro barks out laughing, lighting up his most sensational smile as he grabs him by the shoulders. “Are you planning on going through five condoms with me?”

Keith has every conceivable intention of fucking his way through the weekend and then some. He's been dreaming multi-layered fantasies where numbers don't mean a thing if they can fuck in a never-ending apocalypse of time. “I want you so much. You make me feel so good.”

“Christ, Keith.” Shiro cradles his jaw and peppers him with quick, desperate kisses, balancing half on, half off the bed like he never wants to leave his lips for a second. “Give me one minute.” He reluctantly pulls himself away and hunts fervently through last night’s clothes, and Keith nudges his way up to the pillows, already anticipating the overwhelming, irresistible stretch of Shiro’s erection between his legs.

And he swears nothing, _nothing_ in the universe can stop the promise that's about to be delivered when Shiro finds the condom and comes back to the bed grinning like an idiot and caramelising Keith’s heart straight into rose-flamed oblivion. He’s sweeping upright to cup Shiro’s jaw and kiss him, spreading his legs in Shiro’s lap and telling him with an ambush of lips that he’s not going to stop kissing even whilst Shiro opens him up on glisteningly wet fingers, trembling and shining with sweat and forcing sigh after sigh, because this is the prelude to a dream where everything comes undone, leaning on his arms with his legs spread, groaning around Shiro’s hot lips and big fingers buried knuckle-deep.

“ _Ah!_ Shiro...I’m ready, please...” His arms give way and he drops back bonelessly, scooping the pillows next to him to moan helplessly, muffling both his cries and his rage into them while Shiro’s filthy laugh vibrates straight down into his core.

“Can’t get enough of watching you fall apart on my fingers. Just look at you, Keith, sweetheart, angel.”

Keith doesn’t have the words to describe how incredible and infuriating it all feels. He’s mentally caving, physically approaching a drooling, shuddering wreck. “Ahh—c’mon, I’m ready for you...nhnn.”

Shiro fucks his fingers in him for a final few excruciating strokes before withdrawing to get the condom packet between his teeth and rolled onto his throbbing prick. Fucking yes.

“ _Shiro_...”

“I’m here, baby. Let me make you feel good.” Shiro kneels between his legs and concentrates, damp white forelock rakishly covering an eye and trembling with the effort to go in slow, make it easy for both of them.

Ever since Keith first tasted cock he’s been craving the kind of girth Shiro has; having three fingers buried inside him can’t compare to what a rawing stretch Shiro’s dick is in reality. He spreads his legs more and heaves heavy against the pillow with eyes as glistening and as full of fire as Shiro’s made him to be, as ready as he’ll ever be for Shiro to pull a mantle of magma over him until he’s charred up into stardust.

He’s consumed so deeply...so insanely full. Shiro’s stretching him something amazing, angling to find his prostate on the first slide in and bringing wetness to his violet eyes. He squeezes them shut and throws his head back into the pillows, throat about to split with a scream but Shiro’s already hushing him through it, dropping soothing little kisses against his open mouth and lapping at the moans babbling out of him.

“...you take me so good, Keith,” Shiro moans, bottomed out and smiling and breathtaking.

“Shiro,” he manages to thread through a narrow breath of a kiss. He slides his hands up and down Shiro’s front, digging his nails and scoring lines over his pecs and heaving at how deeply Shiro’s seated. “…I’m so full.”

“Yeah, baby. God, you’re—” It overwhelms Shiro as much as it does him. “You’re amazing.”

Shiro starts the pace and rolls his hips in perfect waves, thrusting in deep, undulating strokes that takes stamina and muscles like Shiro’s to keep consistently coring him out, pinned and folded, filled up and ferociously addicted to being oxygen deprived. It’s so _good_ , fucking better than good, it’s bliss that needs to come with a warning.

“Fuck,” Shiro hisses, “baby, you’re so tight, we're you a virgin before this?”

Keith growls out a sound and ignites mid-moan to smack him on the shoulder, and the current of Shiro's laughter travels through his spine until he can taste it in his mouth, the same electrifying taste as the sweat on Shiro’s upper lip when he's trying to drown out the man's amusement. But he can’t stay mad.

Shiro maneuvers his legs around his waist and it suddenly hits him deeper, stunning a parabolic arch in his back as some sort of filthy punishment Keith had no idea his body wanted to receive. But god, it makes him hot. His eyes roll back into his head and he sinks formlessly into the pillows, groaning and wearing his lungs out.

He’s suspended, fallen off the face of the Earth and mingling in a backdrop of stars when a droplet lands on his cheek and startles his eyes open to see Shiro braced above him on trembling arms, expression drenched in ecstasy and sweat sliding down his face, and Keith goes mute at the sight of him, incalculably worth his speechlessness at just how beautiful and keyed up Shiro is. He's been deprived of this vision from all of his streams; BlackLion losing his composure the minute he’s inside him, fucking him something incredible like he’s carving a sacred place for himself inaccessible to anyone else.

Keith takes his face in both hands to steady the man’s focus, and Shiro's half-lidded eyes drift to him, dazed with heat.

“...this what you wanted, baby? Ta—Taking my breath away?"

Keith’s never looked back with such a breathtaking affirmation of how hopelessly weak he is to this Shiro, that ultra confident edge that he carries filed down to a glorious, unfocused wreck. A veil falls over Shiro’s eyes, overwrought with endorphins and Keith draws Shiro’s forehead to his, smiling entirely too much. “Just like I knew you would be.”

He pushes their lips together for what feels like the hundredth time and savours the moans that sigh and drift, that swirl sweet and warm and keep pouring into his throat, into his lungs, accepting the mercy of Keith pulling him further and further _in_ and both of them closer to the edge.

It’s the most irresistible Shiro of them all.

“K—Keith...”

“Make me come, baby.”

Keith doesn’t last long, and that’s okay. Shiro’s flesh hand strokes him to a messy completion and he comes all over his abs, choking on broken cries, and then he tips himself over so Shiro can have him on his side, leg crooked over his elbow and a thick thigh nudging between for Shiro to finish, holding him tight and smothering his orgasmic moan into his shoulder. Keith doesn’t wait for the endorphins to subside to stroke across Shiro’s cheek and pull him into a languid kiss.

“Keith...baby...baby...” His heated whispers feather cross his cheek and meet the nape of his neck to lay a sweat-slicked forehead onto his temple, undoubtedly still reeling. Keith patiently waits for tranquility to find Shiro amidst this sensory deluge.

“You did so good, Shiro.” He feels it now, the come-down hitting him in the real and exhilarating way star-crossed lovers descend together to reconnect with the Earth. Makes him want to die in bliss right this second, more than once.

Shiro settles for staying like this a little longer, enveloping his whole body around Keith in an incinerating hold until he stops shivering. Even though he’s still inside and gone soft, Keith rubs his hips in small indolent motions and bears down a little tighter on Shiro’s softened cock, silently demanding more, as K_Red most certainly would.

“I will...god, baby, that was incredible...I just...mmmmnnnnn.”

"You better," Keith chuckles. "Five times, remember?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pterodactyl screams*
> 
> ꒰⁎˃ ॢꇴ ॢ˂⁎꒱➴ AAAHHHH ♥! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
> 
> I’ve wanted to reach this part for so long!! Even adding all the new tags feels good. Dlxjfldgk;sazlh,g. They both did amazing *heart swells* ( ˘ ³˘)♥ I hope you all had a good time as well.
> 
> My [**Twitter**](https://twitter.com/GreenDestiny000) is open to anyone who wants to scream about Sheith or other tasty things.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this was an enjoyable first chapter ´･ᴗ･`
> 
> Took a bit of artistic liberty with the futurism of this story such as the aircraft models and Keith’s bike. Keith's motorbike doesn't actually exist in our current world but since the story is set slightly in the future (as per the show), just imagine a sick as fuck red motorbike with futuristic-mods.
> 
> Also love happy disaster Allura, she’s sucha cutie <3
> 
> ====
> 
> I’m on Tumblr and kinda new to Twitter and migrating a lot of stuff over because I got burnt in that dumpster fire, pft. I mainly post artwork, some nsfw things and delicious thirstings. Voltron is a thing I want to post more of, so if anyone would like to connect with me on either platform, please feel free, I’d love to connect with you :3
> 
> [Tumblr](http://green-destiny.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/GreenDestiny000)  
> See you in the next chapter!


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